B    3    331 


9s"? 


:- 


THE  SOLITARY 


BY  JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

THE  BELOVED   (Huebsch) 
SONGS  FOR  THE  NEW  AGE  (Century) 
WAR  AND  LAUGHTER   (Century) 
THE  BOOK  OF  SELF  (Knopf) 


THE    SOLITARY 

JAMES    OPPENHEIM 


NEW  YORK     B.  W.  HUEBSCH     MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,     1919, 
BY  B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


TOINTED   IK   THE   UNITED   STATES   OT   AMERICA 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Several  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  appeared  in  The  Seven 
'Arts.  "  For  Randolph  Bourne "  was  published  in  The 
Dial.  "  Night "  was  performed  by  the  Provincetown 
Players. 


CONTENTS 

FOR  RANDOLPH  BOURNE,  3 
THE  SEA,  9 

SONGS  OUT  OF  SOLITUDE 
The  Ship  of  Skies,  45 
Mist,  46 
Silence,  50 
Rain-Song,  51 
Summer  Night,  52 
Nocturne,  57 
Gray  Evening,  63 
Morning  Song,  65 
The  Rainbow,  67 
Shadow,  72 
Hymn  to  Death,  76 
Sunset,  79 

SONGS  OUT  OF  MULTITUDE 
Europa,  87 
Folk-Soul,  94 

The  Fires  of  Pittsburgh,  96 
The  Song  of  the  Uprising,   103 
The  Ironic  Spirit,   114 
Debs,  117 

Memories  of  Whitman  and  Lincoln,   118 
My  Land,  123 

NIGHT,  127 


FOR  RANDOLPH  BOURNE 


FOR  RANDOLPH  BOURNE 
(Died  December  22,  1918) 


We  wind  wreaths  of  holly 

For  Randolph  Bourne, 

We  hang  bitter-sweet  for  remembrance; 

We  make  a  song  of  wind  in  pines  .  .  . 

Wind  in  pines 

Is  winter's  song,  anthem  of  death, 

And  winter  s  child 

Is  gathered  in  the  green  hemlock  arms 

And  sung  to  rest  .  .  . 

Sung  to  rest  .  .  . 

Waif  of  the  storm 

And  world-bruised  wanderer  .  .  . 

Sung  to  rest  .  .  . 

Sung  to  rest  in  our  living  hearts, 
We  receive  him, 
Winding  our  wreaths  of  holly 
For  Randolph  Bourne. 

[  3  ] 


Winter  lasts  long 

And  Death  is  our  midnight  sun 

Rayless  and  red  .  .  . 

Peoples  are  dying,  and  the  world 

Crumbles  grayly  .  .  . 

Autumn  of  civilization 

Gorgeous  with  fruit 

Dissolves  in  storm  .  .  . 

And  we, 

Our  dead  about  us, 

Know  the  great  darkening  of  the  sun 

And  the  frozen  months, 

Sounding  our  hemlock  anthem, 

Hanging  our  bitter-sweet  .  .  . 

We  walk  in  ruined  woods 

And  among  graves". 

Earth  is  a  burying  ground  .  .  . 

Nations  go  down,  and  dreams 

And  myths  of  peoples 

And  the  forlorn  hopes 

Make  one  burial  .  .  . 

And  we 

Came  from  the  darkness,  never  to  see 

A  Shakespeare's  England, 

A  Sophocles'  Athens, 

But  to  live  in  the  world's  latter  days, 

In  the  great  Age  of  Death, 

Sons  of  Doomsday  .  .  . 

[4] 


He  also  came, 

And  walked  this  crooked  world f 

Its  image. 

3 

In  him  the  world's  winter, 

Ruined  boughs  and  disheveled  cornfields, 

And  the  hunchback  rocks 

Gray  on  the  hills, 

Passed  down  our  streets.  .  .  . 

Passed  and  is  gone;  and  for  him  and  the  dying  world 
Our  dirge  sounds  .  .  . 


Yet  suddenly  the  wind  catches  up  with  glory 
Our  anthem,  and  peals  wild  hope. 
Blowing  of  scattered  bugles  .  .  . 

And  the  wind  cries:     Look, 

Pierce  to  the  soul  of  the  cripple 

Where,  immortal, 

The  spirit  of  youth  goes  on, 

Which  dies  never,  but  shall  be 

The  green  and  the  garland  of  the  Spring. 

And  the  wind  cries'.     Down 

To  the  dissolution  of  the  grave 

The  crippled  body  of  the  world  must  go 

And  die  utterly, 

That  the  seed  may  take  April's  rain 

And  bring  Earth's  blooming  back. 

[5] 


Bitter-sweet,  and  a  northwest  wind 
To  sing  his  requiem, 
Who  was 

Our  Age, 

And  who  becomes 

An  imperishable  symbol  of  our  ongoing, 

For  in  himself 

He  rose  above  his  body  and  came  among  us 

Prophetic  of  the  race, 

The  great  hater 

Of  the  dark  human  deformity 

Which  is  our  dying  world, 

The  great  lover 

Of  the  spirit  of  youth 

Which  is  our  future's  seed  .  .  . 

In  forced  blooming  we  saw 
Glimpses  of  awaited  Spring. 


And  so,  lifting  our  eyes,  we  hang 
Bitter-sweet  for  remembrance 
Of  Randolph  Bourne. 

And  winter  s  child 

Is  gathered  in  the  green  hemlock  arms 

And  sung  to  rest  .  .  . 

Sung  to  rest  in  our  living  hearts, 
We  receive  the  rejected, 
Weaving  a  wreath  of  triumph 
For  Randolph  Bourne. 

[6] 


THE  SEA 


THE  SEA 


My  song  begins  with  the  song  of  the  sea, 

For  the  song  of  the  sea  is  the  song  eternal.  .  .  . 

The  forests  shout  and  are  still:  no  leaf  stirs: 

The  winds  sleep.  .  .  . 

The  rocks  are  the  keeps  of  silence  .  .  . 

But  the  sea  sings  unendingly  on  the  shores  of  the  human 

world, 

And  no  prow  puts  out  but  is  rippled  with  music  .  .  . 
Restlessness  and  rest  are  in  that  song, 
Varying  measures,  and  snatches  of  tune,  and  thin  whispers 

and  braying  trumpets, 
And  solo  singing  and  chorals  of  multitude  .  .  . 

Restlessness  and  rest  .  .  . 

The  toilers  on  the  shore  know  that  the  brine  is  bitter  and  that 
the  briny  song  is  bitter.  .  .  . 

And  the  seafarer  hears  under  the  full  moon  the  mother  lull 
aby  along  the  ship  .  .  . 

This  song  is  the  cradle-song  and  the  voyage-song  and  the 

grave-song  of  humanity  .  .  . 
The  land,  born  of  the  ocean,  is  eaten  away  by  this  hungry 

mother, 

[9  ] 


The  inland  pines  long  to  go  back  and  they  remember  the 

sea-songs  of  old  time, 
And  in  the  ears  of  a  man  this  song  never  ceases  .  .  . 

One  song,  as  the  planet  flies,  rises  unendingly  from  its  lips, 
And  in  that  song  the  planet-children  are  enfolded,  and  never 

go  free  of  it, 

And  never  desire  to  go  free  of  it, 
The  unborn  are  astir  in  water, 
The  elfin-faint  song  of  the  mother  enfolds  them 
And  the  born  hear  that  song  again  on  the  shores, 
And  the  deep  roots,  yea,  the  sea-bottom  roots  of  the  soul 

tremble  with  that  music, 
And  drink  the  miracle  drink  .  .  . 

For  that  song  is  the  song  that  the  sea  of  creation  sings  and 

and  sings, 
Rolling  with  breakers  and  foaming  billows  and  white-caps 

of  stars, 

Restlessness  and  rest, 
Incessant,  ceaseless  on  the  shores  of  night, 
On  the  shores  of  life  .  .  . 

All-permeating  sea-song, 

Music  of  the  fluid  blood  and  the  moving  spirit,  life  that  is 
never  silent, 

Energy    rolling   in    rhythms,    triumphant,    despairing,   soli 
tary,  multitudinous, 

Ascending  descending  song,  the  impetuous  storm-brine,  the 
soothing  moon-sheen, 

The  icy  waters  that  burn,  the  balm  of  the  equatorial  baths, 

Wails  of  the  stricken,  moans  of  the  dying,  shouts  of  the 
strugglers, 

[  10] 


Dirge  and  lullaby,  bells  of  the  bridal  and  the  burial, — 
All  within  myself,  all  on  the  shores  of  my  own  body, 
The  unending  song  of  the  planet  of  my  own  flesh  .  .  . 
The  Mother  forever  near  me  .  .  . 
The  great  Mother  singing  to  her  child  .  .  . 


Cities  have  also  a  deep  sea  music  that  ebbs  in  the  darkness 

and  flows  in  the  morning, 
Unending,  unsilent  .  .  . 

A  solitary  from  the  hills 

Hearing  that  song,  is  aware  of  a  cruel  sea, 

A  sea  whose  singing  is  in  antiphonies  of  yes  and  no, 

Choruses  that  battle  in  hoarse  conflict, 

A  surging  of  storm-music,  untriumphant,  discordant  .  .  . 

A  song  that  is  noise  with  but  overtones  of  concord  .  .  . 

The  city  dweller  never  is  amazed  at  the  song  in  which  he 

himself  is  a  bleeding  chord, 

How  could  he  be  amazed,  knowing  the  hearts  of  men, 
The  anguish,  ambition,  defeat? 

I  have  heard  the  songs  of  great  cities, 

The  dim  bellowing  of  bare  ebb-tides  an  hour  or  two  after 

midnight, 

The  washing  lull  of  the  dead  hours, 
The  tremulous  footsteps  of  sleep-walkers, 
The  rumble  of  the  tide  turning  and  the  fresh  cold  wind 

that  whips  the  gutters  from  the  East, 
The  clash  and  growl  of  the  first  foam  of  the  flood, 
The   flood   itself,    roaring   tumultuously   and   with    urgent 

power  through  the  streets, 


The  white-caps  and  choppy  waters  of  high  noon, 

Bustle,  gossip  and  chatter  of  the  slow  sun, 

The  mighty  out-rolling  and  resistless  pull  of  the  shouting 

ebb-tide, 
The  last  sweet  babble,  the  whispers,  kisses,  delicious  teasing 

of*  the  moon-white  ebb, 
The  silvery  low-singing  tunes  of  first  sleep.  .  .  . 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night  this  song  .  .  . 

Great,  terrible  and  magical  in  London,  Manhattan,  and 
Paris  .  .  . 

Foam  of  brief  lovers  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 

Foam  of  the  waifs  of  London  at  blue-lit  crossings  near  Pic 
cadilly  Circus, 

Foam  of  the  sleepers  on  benches  and  the  dry  hot  grass  of 
parks  in  midsummer  Manhattan  .  .  . 

Foam  and  sparkle,  and  the  clean  blue  sweep  of  waters,  and 
the  stormy  crests  of  crowds,  bursting  billows  of  gnash 
ing  mobs,  spumy  moon-bursts  of  revolutionists.  .  .  . 

The  election  crowds  on  Broadway,  the  torchlight  crowds, 
the  concert  crowds  in  the  Mall  .  .  . 

Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  this  song  .  .  . 


The  sea,  black  in  the  winter  cloud-light, 

Swinging  rough  squares  of  sheeted  water,  laced  with  white 
foam, 

And  spouting  spume  through  the  wind's  mouth,  and  slash 
ing  into  blue  about  jutting  rocks, 

Hard,  broken,  like  jostling  steel,  out  to  the  sky-rim, 

Heaves  with  a  merciless  menace,  with  a  monstrous 
strength  .  .  . 

[    12] 


There  is  no  pity  in  the  sea, 
And  nothing  human.  .  .  . 

Indoors  we  may  build  a  fire  of  faggots, 
And  read  of  lovers  and  of  saviors  .  .  . 
In  human  warmth  we  may  open  our  hearts  ... 

But  the  wild  light  of  November  dusk  glances  along  the  win 
dows, 

The  darkening  room  has  a  smile  of  fire, 

Our  backs  shadow  out  through  the  walls  to  the  shadow- 
shaking  skies, 

Backwardly  we  are  hurled  in  the  fight  and  fury  of  winds 
and  waters, 

The  brutal  ocean  unleashed  vents  a  venomous  hatred, 

Now  the  ship  is  clapped  together,  and  fisted  out  of  the  flood, 
and  pulled  by  talons  under, 

And  the  sea's  song  is  a  bellowing  and  uproar  out  of  iced 
hell  .  .  . 

Softly  the  human  voice  goes  on  intoning  the  tale  of  gentle 

lovers, 

The  sad  sweet  savior  story  .  .  . 
"  All  is  love,"  the  voice  sings,  "  God  is  love  .  .  ." 
Dimly  in  the  smile  of  the  fire  we  strive  to  create  a  circle  and 

spot  of  love  .  .  . 
But  we  are  shadows  in  the  light,  and  our  life  is  swirling  out 

over  the  rocking  sea, 

The  house-walls  fall  apart,  we  stride  clouds, 
We  ride  the  tempest  like  witches  .  .  . 

And  the  human   being  whose  soft  voice   remembers  love 

for  us, 
We  know  is  a  demon  with  a  strange  mask. 

[13] 


Was  it  not  yesterday  that  the  sea  was  as  gentle  as  a  girl 
Who  after  the  restlessness  of  longing 
Is  with  her  lover  again,  in  a  secret  place, 
And  he  is  caressing  her? 

Was  it  so  long  ago  when  the  sea  was  as  plaintive  as  a 

wounded  child  moaning  for  its  mother, 
Forsaken  on  the  shore,  hidden  from  the  face  of  the  moon  ? 

Or  so  long  ago  when  the  sea,  striding  like  heroic  youth  in 

the  morning  sunshine, 

Shouted  courage  to  the  toilers  on  the  shore, 
And  his  laughter  echoed  among  the  rocks? 

Or  when  the  sea  like  a  god,  some  ancient  and  understanding 

mother, 
Laid  soothing  and  healing  hands  of  song  on  the  hearts  of 

men? 

Sea  of  battles,  sea  of  matings,  sea  mournful  over  the  graves 
of  the  unremembered, 

Rhapsodic  on  summer  mornings  with  the  flush  of  youth, 

Sultry  with  passions,  fogged  with  gropings,  starry  with  un 
measured  majesty, 

Serene,  furious,  meditative,  cold  and  hot,  bitter  and  sweet, 

Guised  in  all  ages,  the  helpless  child,  the  youth,  the  mature, 
the  mother  and  father, 

Brutal  and  delicate,  divine,  demonic, 

What  are  you,  sea?  what  are  you,  like  something  in  my  own 
depths? 

Like  something  of  humanity,  yet  not  human  8 


I  see  the  great  race  surging, 
I  see  the  great  race  rolling, 
I  hear  the  war-guns  thunder  and  the  clear-voiced  choirs 

singing  .  .  . 
I  step  in  a  house  where  a  tired  mother  croons  to  her  sleepy 

child, 
I  walk  along  the  shore,  in  the  gleaming  summer  night,  and 

hear  the  babble  of  lovers.  .  .  . 

The  murderer  walks  side  by  side  with  the  saint, 

The  reactionist  and  the  revolutionist  hate  one  another, 

The  judge  is  judged  by  the  convict,  the  sick  are  healing  the 

doctors, 
The  waves  break  one  through  another,  the  waves  appear 

only  as  tools  and  slaves  of  the  resistless  tides, 
The  tides  interlink,  the  undertow  pulls  against  the  flood, 
The  sea  storms,  is  calm,  is  diluted  with  rain  and  resalted 

out  of  its  depths, 
Mercy,    anguish,    tribulation    and    sleep  .  .  .  the    weather 

changes  .  .  . 
We  help  the  delivery  of  the  new-born,  and  shovel  earth  on 

the  dead  .  . 


Mare  aternis! 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  chaos,  you  sea  of  life, 
Seething,  divine,  merciful  and  fiendish  humanity, 
Flood  of  ages,  flood  forever  old,  forever  new, 
Laced  with  the  foam  of  thinking,  with  white-caps  of  ideal 
ism, 

Silvered  with  moonlight  dream,  golden  with  the  broken-up 
sun,  each  sun-splinter  a  hero  and  a  savior, 
[  15] 


Changeless  through  incessant  changing, 

A  sea  with  every  wave  striving  to  leap  clear  of  the  deeps  and 

be  a  soul, 
With  every  wave  longing  to  walk  self-contained  on  the  hard 

bright  shore, 
Rolling  yearningly  toward  the  shore,  and  helplessly  dragged 

back, 
Sea  in  which  each  wave  is  only  water  swinging  with  the 

ebb  and  flow  of  the  flood, 
Sea  that  dreams  of  transcending  itself  because  the  sun  sucks 

it  up  into  shining  vapor-drops, 
But  the  rain  falls,  the  sea  drinks  back  the  rain,  and  after  the 

storm  the  sea  is  the  same  as  before  .  .  . 

Mare  aternis! 

Circle  of  life  turning  viciously  in  on  itself, 

Serpent  with  its  tail  in  its  mouth,  revolving  like  a  wheel, 

Dreams  of  millennium  when  the  charmed  circle  is  broken, 

When  the  tail  is  torn  from  the  mouth, 

Dreams  of  education,  of  justice,  of  democracy,  of  religion 

When  at  last  there  is  freedom  from  the  wash  and  backwash, 

the  tide  and  undertow, 
The  mad  multitude-passions,  the  helpless  riding  of  storms, 

the  helter-skelter  of  weather,  the  groping  in  the  fog, 
When  at  last  the  sea  rises  above  itself 
Out  of  demonic  depths  to  clean  divine  peaks  .  .  . 

The  storm  of  revolution  rides  the  sea, 

Crying  "  We  bring  freedom,  we  bring  peace  "... 

And  revolution,  like  reaction,  brings  a  new  slavery,  a  new 

war  .  .  . 
For  how  shall  the  sea  change  its  nature  and  how  shall  the 

sea  be  anything  but  the  sea  ? 
[  16] 


Beautiful  over  Russia  shines  the  star  of  revolution  .  .  . 

And  beautiful  in  the  manger  of  the  Soviets  again  the  Christ- 
child  is  born  on  Earth, 

A  divine  song  is  in  the  air  ... 

And  irresistibly,  as  of  old,  the  Christ  shall  be  crucified  by 
his  own  people  .  .  . 

For  the  sea  has  not  changed  because  a  golden  light  falls 
through  the  storm  on  the  bitter  waters  .  .  . 

The  sea  of  the  people  is  the  same  sea  that  the  tyrants  rode, 

"  Whoever  is  not  for  us,  is  against  us,"  sang  the  tyrants, 

And  the  people  sing:  "  Because  our  cause  is  holy  and  a  lib 
eration, 

Whoever  is  not  for  us,  is  against  us." 

It  is  ever  in  the  name  of  holiness  and  through  divine  sanc 
tion  that  man  crucifies  man, 

The  holier  the  cause,  the  more  horrible  the  sacrifice  .  .  . 

For  so  long  as  man  is  of  the  sea,  like  the  sea  he  must  sing 
all  songs, 

God-songs  and  devil-songs,  music  of  mercy,  music  of  bru 
tality  .  .  . 

So  long  as  man  is  of  the  sea,  all  weathers  shall  sway  him, 

And  out  of  the  divine  shall  leap  the  demonic  .  .  . 


A  friend  comes  to  the  solitary  and  says  to  him : 
"  But  surely  out  of  pity  you  are  for  the  people, 
Surely  you  are  with  the  oppressed,  the  despised  and  the 

hungry  .  .  . 
Surely  you  cannot  stand  by  and  see  children  suffer  ..." 

And  the  solitary  answers:     What  shall  I  do? 

[  17] 


"  You  shall  become  one  of  us,"  says  the  friend, 
"  For  whoever  is  not  for  us,  is  against  us  .  .  ." 

And  the  solitary  ponders  and  answers: 

"  But  if  I  become  one  of  you,  I  become  one  of  the  op 
pressors  .  .  . 

For  what  you  believe  in  is  of  God,  and  what  your  enemies 
believe  in  is  of  the  devil  .  .  . 

Oppression  begins  when  God  hurls  Satan  out  of  heaven  .  .  ." 

"  Yet,"  says  the  friend,  "  are  we  not  more  right  than  our 
enemies?  " 

And    the    solitary    answers:     "  What    is    newest    is    most 

right  .  .  . 
For  the  new  desires  things  of  glory,  even  as  the  old,  when  it 

was  new,  desired  things  of  glory  .  .  . 
But  answer  me:  wherein  do  you  and  your  fellows  differ  from 

those  of  old?" 

"  Our  aims,  our  ideals,  our  purposes  are  different,"  says  the 
friend  .  .  . 

And  the  solitary  answers: 

"  The  sea  of  man  is  littered  all  over  with  the  spindrift  of 

ideals  .  .  . 

Great  dreams  and  ideas  go  washing  over  the  waves  .  .  . 
Wreckages  of  divine  civilizations  mock  the  great  flood  .  .  . 
But  so  long  as  man  is  of  the  sea,  so  long  will  the  sea  use 

him  in  its  eternal  way  .  .  . 
Man's  world  is  what  man  is,  not  what  he  dreams  .  .  ." 

"  But  this  is  hopelessness,"  says  the  friend. 

And  the  solitary  answers : 
11  This  is  but  life  .  .  . 

[  18  ] 


And  when  men  seek  to  transcend  themselves,  they  shall  break 
the  wheel, 

They  shall  come  out  of  the  sea  ... 

Only  when  a  man  becomes  human  does  he  cease  to  be  a  herd, 
an  energy,  a  sea,  a  thing  of  nature, 

And  is  healed  of  the  mighty  opposites  .  .  . 

It  is  because  of  the  sea  in  himself  from  which  he  has  never 
emerged, 

It  is  because  of  nature  in  himself,  the  flux,  the  tides,  storms, 
visions  and  furies, 

That  he  remains  a  primitive  masked  in  a  dream  of  di 
vinity  .  .  . 

"  Let  him  start  a  revolution  in  his  own  soul,  and  free  the 

slaves  in  his  own  spirit, 
And  conquer  the  tyrants  in  his  own  breast, 
And  harness  the  beast  in  his  blood, 
And  put  away  the  temptation  to  be  a  supreme  god, 
And  the  equal  temptation  to  be  a  powerful  demon  .  .  . 
Then  perhaps  he  shall  step  up  on  the  shore  of  a  new  world, 
And  find  what  all  are  seeking  .  .  . 

"  It  is  weakness  to  seek  freedom  for  self  by  slaughtering 

others  .  .  . 
Equality,  liberty,  brotherhood  are  of  the  soul,  and  are  of 

the  self  .  .  . 
The  easy  way  is  out  and  over,   the  hard  way  is   in  and 

through  .  .  . 
It  is  man's  soul  that  needs  a  millennium  and  not  man's 

world  .  .  ." 

So  the  solitary  spoke,  and  of  course  his  words  were  a  riddle, 

they  were  not  understood  .  .  . 
And  these  two  could  be  friends  no  longer  .  .  . 

[  19] 


II 

/  sing  the  battle  of  the  soul: 

At  moon-wane,    in   furious   foam-flecked   seas,   eddies   and 

spouts  and  spirals, 
The  dreaming  soul,  a  wave  of  flesh,  whipped,  wandering, 

tossing  on  hilly  waters, 
Becomes  aware  of  itself  .  .  . 

The  bellbuoys  clang  longings  for  freedom, 

And  the  sea  like  innumerable  bells  takes  up  the  song,  and 
goes  pealing  with  it, 

And  the  waking  soul  rolls  like  a  bell  clanging  for  libera 
tion  .  .  . 

"  I  am  a  child,"  sings  the  soul, 
"  I  am  a  child  and  a  slave  ..." 
"  I  am  a  child  of  two  mothers  .  .  ." 

For  the  soul  finds  now  a  sea  within  the  sea, 

It  finds  the  surface  sea  of  the  waves  of  flesh  clashing  and 
shouting  around  it, 

It  finds  the  under  sea  profound,  the  depths,  deep  and  sound 
less  .  .  . 

Outer  sea  and  inner  sea, 

And  only  a  wall  of  flesh  like  a  strip  of  sand  between  the 
waters  .  .  . 

Only  a  wall  of  flesh  between  the  two  engulfing  mothers  .  .  . 

[    20] 


And  the  soul,  whipped,  wandering,  tossing  on  hilly  waters, 
Water  itself  gliding  through  water, 
Sport  of  the  monstrous  currents,  the  divine-demonic  tides, 
Takes  soundings  in  the  depths  and  learns  its  law.  .  .  . 

The  song  of  the  outer  sea  is  a  loud  song, 
But  the  song  of  the  inner  sea  is  a  still  small  song  .  .  . 
And  the  inner  sea  sings:     "  All  seas  conquer  their  slaves, 
But  to  the  conqueror  of  seas  all  seas  bring  gifts  .  .  . 
Shoreward,  O  soul,  shoreward,  be  free  .  .  ." 

Now  there  is  a  wrestler  in  the  sea: 

He  wrestles  with  the  deep  sea  and  the  sea  of  waves: 

He  sinks:  he  rises:  he  puts  out  strokes  toward  the  shore: 

he  is  sucked  back: 
Giddily  he  whirls,  spitting  the  brine  from  his  mouth,  and 

laughs  wildly,  and  is  water  slapping  to  and  fro  ... 

And  there  comes  upon  him  languor,  and  hate  of  the  clashing 
waves,  and  disgust  of  motion,  and  weariness  of  effort, 

He  is  tired  of  small-sized  devils  and  gods, 

Fatigued  with  crowds  .  .  . 

And  into  his  ears  now  the  deep  still  sea  intones  a  siren 
song  .  .  . 

"  In,"  it  sings,  "  under  .  .  .  come  down,  my  child  .  .  . 
Out  of  restlessness,  rest, 
Out  of  pain,  peace  .  .  . 

There  are  memories  with  gentle  ghosts,  beloved  shapes  for 
gotten,  in  the  depths; 

Mother  is  there  when  the  child  comes  home, 
She  shall  croon  to  you :  she  shall  take  you  to  her  bosom  .  .  . 
And  deeper  than  memory  is  Eden, 

[    21    ] 


And  Mother  Eve  and  your  Father  God  walking  on  the  grass 

when  the  lilacs  blossom  .  .  . 
And  beneath  God,  the  float  of  eternal  peace  .  .  ." 

The  soul  listens,  and  sinks  .  .  . 

Sinks  into  the  arms  of  the  Mother  .  .  . 

Sinks  through  a  layer  of  terror,  through  the  terrible  creeds 

and  prohibiting  bans  of  life  .  .  . 
Breaks  the  law  of  being,  which  is  struggle, 
And  finds  peace  and  enfolding  death.  .  .  . 

And  the  soul  must  now  choose:  life  or  death, 

Reality  or  Nirvana  .  .  . 

I  sing  not  of  those  who,  in  living  death,  are  sealed  in  them 
selves, 

But  I  sing  the  battle  of  the  soul, 

IWhich  dashes  away  from  its  lips  the  much-loved  cup  of 
dream, 

And  with  birth-throes  breaks  open  the  Mother  and  floun 
ders  out  on  the  swirling  floods, 

And,  strong  with  the  depths,  strikes  shoreward  again  .  .  . 

Many  Satans  entangle  this  swimmer  and  wrestler  .  .  . 
And  a  sunset  song  and  a  sunrise  song  ring  in  his  ears  and 

allure  him  .  .  . 

"  Power,  Power,  Power,"  the  sunrise  song  repeats, 
"  Love,  Love,  Love,"  comes  singing  from  the  sunset  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  sunrise,  mirage  of  conquerors  .  .  . 
"  Be  the  highest  wave,"  is  the  shout  .  .  . 
"  For  about  the  highest  wave  the  cry  of  fame  goes  circling, 
And  the  highest  wave  that  rises  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
lesser  waves, 

[   22   ] 


That  goes  up  by  trampling  down, 

Shall  be  as  a  rider  of  the  sea,  stern  with  the  joy  of  mas 
tery  .  .  . 

Get  above  the  sea,  by  climbing  over  it,"  is  the  song  of  the 
visionary  conquerors  .  .  . 

Old  song  and  terrible  .  .  . 

The  soul  essays  the  task,  and  his  height  is  only  a  slippery 

pushing  of  the  lesser  waves  about  him, 
And  his  is  the  serfdom  and  the  slavery  of  height  .  .  . 
Who  can  stay  high,  who  refuses  to  obey  the  low? 

But  out  of  the  sunset  the  song  of  love  comes  alluring, 
Over  the  crimson  and  melting  tide  the  beautiful  waves  come 

trooping, 

White  hands,  white  hands  are  stretched  to  the  wanderer, 
Faces  glide  out  of  shadow  and  back, 
Golden  breasts  are  soft  in  sunset, 
Youth  sings  to  youth  .  .  . 

There  is  a  song  of  little  children  in  the  song  of  love, 
There  is  a  song  of  fireside  and  the  nest  sheltered  from  the 

blast, 

A  song  of  mother  and  father  and  home  .  .  . 
"  Why  do  you  wander,"  it  sings,  "  and  why  do  you  strive  for 

the  unattainable? 

What  use  is  there  in  icy,  lonely  freedom? 
What  comfort  on  the  peak  ? 
Power  is  bitterness:  solitude  is  madness: 
Give  yourself  to  the  common  ways,  the  homely  ways,  the 

folk  ways: 
Come  into  this  cove  of  the  ocean,  sheltered  from  time  and 

tumult  .  .  . 

[23] 


Forget  the  depths  and  the  heights  —  but  while  there  is  yet 

life,  live, 
Live  on  from  day  to  day,  with  many  soft  arms  around 

you  .  .  ." 

This  song  is  the  most  subtle  temptation  of  the  soul, 

This  sunset  song  .  .  . 

But  I  sing  the  battle  of  the  soul 

Which  wrestles  with  the  weakness  of  love,  which  is  self-love, 

And  the  meshes  of  melting  pity,  which  is  self-pity  .  .  . 

Now  the  soul  comes  to  a  knowledge  of  itself, 
And  finds,  in  horror,  that  all  the  evils  of  the  world, 
Yes,  all  the  evils  of  the  two  seas, 
Are  of  itself,  tangled  with  itself, 
That  the  public  evil  of  the  outer  sea 
And  the  cosmic  evil  of  the  inner  sea 
Are  woven  like  threads  into  itself  .  .  . 
So  it  ceases  now  to  wrestle  with  other  souls, 
And  begins  to  wrestle  with  its  own  soul  .  .  . 
In  itself  to  push  out  the  slave  and  the  tyrant,  the  beast  and 
the  saint,  the  devil  and  god  .  .  . 

Yea,  it  goes  up  even  against  its  beautiful  gods, 
Its  adored  Jesus,  pure-browed  Mary,  and  revered  Jehovah, 
And     trembling     with     superstitious     fear,     breaks     their 
images  .  .  . 

And  the  soul  cries:     "  I  have  been  water  in  water, 
What  I  thought  was  self  was  my  mingling  in  others, 
Imitation  of  Christ,  imitation  of  heroes,  imitation  of  this 

teacher,  that; 
But  now  I  will  put  all  out  of  me  though  I  am  stripped  and 

husked  like  an  ear  of  corn 


And  find  in  the  end,  mildew  and  withered  kernels  .  .  . 

I  shall  win  myself  though  myself  is  the  thinnest  of  shadows, 

The  tiniest  of  seeds  .  .  . 

I  will  become  lonely,  in  order  to  be  born  .  .  ." 

Bitter  are  the  waters  of  November, 

Bleak  is  the  cold  snow-pitted  air  that  whirls  over  the  barren 

sea, 
And  the  gray  clouds  that  massively  fold  black  shadows,  while 

the  sea's  song  is  a  dirge,  a  threnody, 
And  there  is  no  life  on  the  deep,  but  the  mechanical  sloping 

of  breakers  .  .  . 

Barren,  endless,  and  bitter  the  sea  rides, 
A  few  gulls  wheel,  the  air  is  a  flight  of  shadows  .  .  . 

0  loneliness,  who  has  sung  your  song,  who  has  known  your 

dark  music? 

Only  the  stripped  soul  knows  you,  only  the  naked  self  has 
tasted  your  salt  .  .  . 

As  by  a  miracle  the  soul,  wrestling  only  with  itself,  draws  to 

the  shore, 
And   that  gray  day  breaks   when  it  stands  shivering  and 

naked  on  the  sand, 

And  looking  about,  sees  that  it  is  alone, 
And  that  the  sea  is  warmer  than  the  winter  air, 
And  that  comfort  is  only  in  the  sea  ... 

Like  a  child,  the  soul  weeps  .  .  . 

"  I  am  separated  from  all  things,"  it  whimpers, 

"  I  am  sundered  from  all  fires,  and  aloof  from  comfort  .  .  « 

1  am  naked,  and  have  become  little  .  .  . 

[25] 


O  the  unbcarableness  of  littleness, 

0  the  pain  of  being  only  human  and  little  .  .  ." 

And  now  comes  the  temptation  of  the  return  .  .  . 
But  I  sing  the  battle  of  the  soul 

Which,  lonely  as  in  death,  straightens  up  in  all  nakedness, 
Takes  the  North  wind  and  the  terrible  view  of  emptiness, 
And  the  dying  of  all  old  ways  of  comfort  and  mightiness, 
And  the  being  cut  off  from  the  face  of  Man  and  the  face  of 
God  ... 

1  sing  of  the  soul  that  has  won  self  out  of  the  clutch  of  the 

seas, 

Self,  but  a  bitter  little  fruit  to  win, 
But  conquered  and  kept  .  .  . 

The  day  dies,  the  night  is  still  .  .  . 

In  a  few  dark  hours  a  long  season  passes, 

And  in  the  darkness  before  dawn  on  the  land  the  song  of 
meadowlarks  is  heard, 

And  the  smell  of  lilacs  comes  down  to  mix  with  the  sea- 
smell  .  .  . 

A  new  song  is  on  the  sea, 

A  softer  and  clearer  song,  a  music  of  the  south  and  the 

homing  bluebirds, 
And  in  the  heart,  a  new  song  .  .  . 

"  Spring  has  come  .  .  . 

What  grass  blades  pierce  the  loam  of  the  spirit? 
What  leaves  open  their  crumpled  baby  hands? 
And  where  is  loneliness  now  with  sea  and  earth  and  the 
shining  cities  of  men 

[  26  ] 


Singing  about  me? 

And  where  is  bitterness  now  and  barrenness,  with  the 
golden  light 

Shallowing  along  the  uneven  sea  and  dropping  from  the  blue 
heavens  ? 

And  what  is  this  in  my  being  that  bubbles  upward  unhin 
dered  and  free, 

Is  it  understanding?     Has  love  come?" 

Now  the  soul  chants  the  chant  of  freedom 

And  the  miracle  of  separation  .  .  . 

Now  it  glories  in  being  human,  and  is  glad  of  littleness  .  .  . 

Now  the  soul  resists  the  depths  no  longer,  and  wrestles  no 

longer  with  gods  and  demons, 
For,  behold,  it  is  at  one  with  the  depths  .  .  . 

Soul  and  sea  sing  the  song  of  reconciliation  .  .  . 
For  he  who  is  engulfed  in  the  sea  is  a  slave  of  the  sea, 
But  to  the  conqueror  of  the  sea,  the  sea  brings  gifts  .  .  . 
Yea,  the  monster  sea  now  becomes  the  comrade  of  the  soul, 
And  sea  and  soul  move  as  married  .  .  . 

The  soul  sings :     "  Because  I  am  myself  and  not  the  sea, 

nor  in  it, 

Now  I  can  work  with  the  sea  ... 
The  sea  has  mighty  currents  and  tides  of  destiny, 
And  I,  born  of  the  sea,  must  give  myself  to  my  doom, 
Accept  the  destiny  the  depths  allot  me, 
The  destiny  I  make  my  own  through  my  own  need,  my  own 

willingness  .  .  . 
And  working  with  the  sea,  I  shall  work  out  my  life  .  .  ." 

[27  ] 


Dreams,  phantasies,  imaginings  .  .  . 

Bubbling  of  the  depths,  the  risen  visionary  billows  of  the 

sea  of  the  spirit, 

In  the  night  breaking  on  the  shores  of  consciousness 
And  the  soul  resisting  like  sand  and  rock,  and  so  writing 

crooked  lines  of  dream, 
Yea,  the  soul  and  the  sea  between  them  writing  crooked  lines 

of  dream  .  .  . 

On  the  shore  at  the  break  of  day  the  soul  walks 

And  examines  the  crooked  lines,  and  deciphers  this  writing, 

And  learns  its  law  .  .  .  the  law  of  the-  marriage  of  sea 

and  soul  .  .  . 
And  obeying  this  law,  is  free  .  .  . 

Not  inland  the  soul  goes,  not  seaward  .  .  . 
But  along  its  jagged  shore  —  its  own  fate,  given  by  self  and 
the  sea  ... 

There  is  a  mystery  here,  inexpressible: 

And  however  the  books  describe  it, 

Only  he  who  has  won  himself  may  understand  .  .  . 

Only  the  lover  knows  love,  only  the  sorrower  sorrow, 

Only  the  free  soul  freedom.  .  .  . 

/  sing  the  battle  of  the  soul 

Which  even  when  free  longs  back  at  times  for  bondage, 
And  often  is  lured  by  the  white  hands  under 
And  swallowed  again  in  the  sea, 

And   again   he  battles,   and  again   he  must   win   his  free 
dom  .  .  . 


1 28] 


Ill 

Mare  aternis! 

In  the  night,  flashes  of  lightning  illumining  your  moving 

acres, 

Sky-thunder  answering  sea-thunder, 
Sky  and  sea  wrestling  in  a  broken  blackness  .  .  . 
The  whistling  of  the  wind  in  the  teeth  of  the  night  .  .  . 
Slash  of  the  rain  and  the  crackling  of  the  broom  and  grass 

on  the  sand-dunes  .  .  . 

All  life  seeks  cover:  the  bird  to  his  nest,  the  nestling  to  the 

brooding  wing, 
And  inland  beasts  to  their  lairs  .  .  . 

Mare  tzternisf     Intolerable  power, 

Trampling  destructiveness, 

Shattering  energy  .  .  . 

Between  such  forces  who  can  stand  and  walk? 

Who  can  survive  between  such  a  sea  and  such  a  sky? 

Yet  I  see  a  lantern  on  the  shore, 

I  see  staggering  yellow  light  on  oilskin,  the  double  motion 

of  legs, 
Flap  of  a  coat  about  a  button,  a  halo  of  slanting  rain  around 

the  swinging  lantern  .  .  . 
It  is  the  solitary  walking  by  the  sea, 

E  29] 


It  is  the  solitary  stooping  now  and  then  to  study  the 
crooked  tide-lines,  the  debris  and  driftage  when  a  billow 
pulls  back, 

It  is  the  solitary  battling  against  the  risen  outstretched  com 
bers  and  their  devouring  mouths, 

Battling  against  the  loosed  skies  and  the  lightning,  wading 
his  way  through  a  double  thunder  .  .  . 

Seaward  the  lightning  reveals  a  swirling  quadrangle  of  the 
deep, 

And  the  solitary  looking,  feels  his  heart  tighten  and  become 
a  knot.  .  .  . 

Are  those  human  heads  and  slippery  naked  human  bodies 
struggling  among  the  white-caps? 

Is  the  sea-water  blood,  reddening  round  them?  Is  it  their 
own  blood  reddens  the  sea? 

Look,  with  sharp  blades  they  are  stabbing  and  hacking  at 
each  other  .  .  . 

The  sheeted  lightning  fails,  burying  the  melee  in  black 
ness  .  .  . 

"  Humanity!  humanity!  "  cries  the  solitary  ... 

"  O  you,  my  flesh,  flesh  of  the  adoration  and  the  dream  of 

brotherhood  and  of  love, 
Flesh  of  the  infinite  clear  and  quiet  reason, 
Flesh  of  the  music  of  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Flesh  of  the  coming  of  the  Christ, 
Flesh  dedicated  to  divine  vision, 

Are  you  madness  and  murder  and  ravening  bestiality? 
What  is  in  the  heart  of  man,  what  is  in  his  soul? 
What  sky-terror?  what  sea-horror? 
What  snake's  venom  does  a  man  spit?  and  what  dragon's 

fire? 

[  30] 


You  sons  of  God,  is  your  mother  the  earthquake  and  the 
avalanche  ? 


"  Mare  tsternis!  I  know  now  what  song  your  storm  is  sing 
ing  ; 

What  hymn  of  hate  yells  in  the  gale  and  the  roaring  swale 
and  the  thundering  sky  .  .  . 

I  know  now  your  love  of  the  suffering  and  anguish  of 
others, 

Your  tiger-love  of  enemies, 

You  who  knew  how  to  invent  racks  and  cannons  and  vapors 
of  dense  poison  and  spirts  of  body-smothering 
flame  .  .  ." 

And  as  the  solitary  cried  out  a  mob   in  a  breaker  broke 

about  him, 

And  with  loud  shouts  they  ringed  him  toward  the  sea  .  .  . 
He  did  not  fight  them:  he  fought  a  beast  that  suddenly 

reared  out  of  his  own  depths, 
And  the  billow  fell  away  .  .  . 

But  one  shouted  from  the  sea-fringe  .  .  . 

"  Who  are  you,  traitor,  who  stand  aside  from  the  battle  ?  " 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  the  battle?''  asked  the  soli 
tary  .  .  . 

"  If  you  are  not  with  us,"  cried  the  other,  "  you  are  with  the 
enemy !  " 

"  Neither  with  the  enemy,  nor  with  you,"  the  solitary 
answered  .  .  . 

[  31   ] 


"  Are  you  not  a  human  being?  "  the  other  cried.     "  And  are 

you  not  of  our  nation? 
And  is  not  the  voice  of  the  people  the  voice  of  God?  " 

11  Yes,"  answered  the  solitary,  "  the  voice  of  the  people  is 

the  voice  of  God, 
And  it  is  also  the  voice  of  the  Devil  .  .  ." 

The  night  dragged  away  the  questioner:  but  the  solitary 

was  troubled  .  .  . 
He  stooped  and  read  the  crooked  writing  in  the  sand  .  .  . 

And  he  read:     "  Obey  the  law  of  your  being  .  .  . 

Obey  the  law  of  sea  and  self  in  your  own  soul  .  .  . 

Accept  your  destiny  .  .  . 

Neither  resist  them  nor  obey  them:  they  know  not  what 

they  do  ... 
Evade,  and  go  on  .  .  ." 

Under  the  cover  of  the  storm,   the  solitary,  muffling  his 

lantern,  picked  his  way  .  .  . 
And  he  mused: 

"  When  shall  the  voice  of  the  people  be  voices,  and  these 

voices,  neither  God  nor  devil,  but  human? 
When  shall  the  cause  cease  to  be  a  sacred  cause,  and  one's 

friends  cease  to  be  saints  and  one's  enemies  Satans? 
When  shall  humanity  cease  to  be  a  sea,  an  energy  of  nature, 

a  clash  of  opposites,  and  become  human? 
When  shall  a  man  cease  to  walk  in  the  steps  of  his  gods  and 

half-gods 
And  walk  in  his  own  steps? 

[   32   ] 


When  shall  men  cease  from  violence  against  others  and  turn 

the  battle  against  the  evil  in  themselves? 
Do  they  not  know  that  the  evil  they  bayonet  is  an  evil 

within    them  ? 
And  when  shall  they  cease  from  demanding  that  the  free 

return  to  their  bondage  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  mused  the  solitary, 

11  The  deep  sea  and  I  are  in  league. 

How  then  can  I  obey  the  surface  sea  of  humanity  which  is 

but  the  froth,  toy  and  slave  of  the  deep  sea? 
Whom  have  I  harmed?  whom  have  I  opposed? 
Why   are   they  jealous  of   me?   why   do   they   destroy  the 

strong  and  those  who  refuse  to  be  bound  with  their 

bondage? 
What  do  they  fear  at  the  hands  of  free  men?     Are  they  not 

shouting  for  freedom  all  the  time? 
They  cry :     "  We  must  be  free  " ;  but  if  anyone  becomes  free, 

they  put  him  in  chains  and  thrust  him  in  jail  .  .  . 
Not  freedom  they  seek :  but  power  .  .  . 
The  sea  wants  power  and  sensual  sultry  nights, 
And  noise,  and  motion,  and  bondage,  and  abandon  .  .  . 
The  sea  loves  the  taste  of  many  things 
But  loves  nothing  so  much  as  the  taste  of  human  blood  .  .  .  " 

The  solitary  went  plunging  through  the  night, 

And  the  great  storm  reeled  about  him, 

By  lightning-illumination  he  saw  terrible  sights, 

Visions  of  the  deep  that  wrung  his  heart  and  blinded  him 

with  angry  tears  .  .  . 

He  saw  a  crumbling  acre  of  skinny  wretches,  a  toss  of  be 
seeching  hands,  and  heard  the  animal  cry  of  hunger, 
Starving  children  floated  dying  on  the  sliding  foam, 

[  33  ] 


Wailing  mothers  crouched  over  babies  and  the  waves  washed 

them  apart, 
The  cruel  lightning  slashed   down   among  them,   the   tide 

boiled  with  blood  .  .  . 
And  darkness  carried  their  sorrow  afar  .  .  . 

And  he  saw  an  acre  of  wild  gayety,  a  dance  of  Dionysian 

fury  in  the  sea, 
Eerie   phosphorescence   over   the   combers'   crests,    and   the 

naked  passion  of  men  and  women, 
And  a  laughter  more  horrible  than  the  wail  of  hunger  in 

that  sea  of  blood  .  .  . 

And  he  saw  at  one  place  two  lovers  quarreling, 

And  each  was  trying  to  win  back  the  soul  he  had  lost  in  the 

other, 

For  their  love  was  a  living  each  of  the  other's  life, 
And  now  each  hated  the  other  because  he  had  lost  his  own 

freedom, 
And  since  each  soul  was  in  the  other  each  stab  they  gave 

stabbed  only  themselves  .  .  . 

Their  hate  was  perfect,  for  their  love  was  great  .  .  . 
And   in  that  scene   the  solitary  seemed   to  see  the  whole 

struggle  of  humanity  .  .  . 

* 

And   he  saw  many  other  sights,    and   some   of   surpassing 

beauty, 
Sudden   glimpses  so   tenderly   beautiful   that  pity  softened 

him  .  .  . 
The  friend  who  took  his  friend's  place  in  guilt  and  died  for 

him  .  .  . 
The  worn  mother  smiling  with  devout  joy  over  the  triumph 

of  her  son, 

[  34] 


The  unspoiled  magic  of  first  love,  a  boy  and  a  girl  shy  and 

reverent  before  each  other  .  .  . 
The  lonely  scientist  giving  up  all  things  to  cure  a  malign 

disease  .  .  . 
Joyous  singers,  innocent  children,  teachers  patient  with  the 

young  .  .  . 
Much  of  wonder,  pity  and  sweetness  .  .  .  moon-glimpses  in 

a  thunderstorm  .  .  . 

And  the  solitary  thought :     "  Surely  I  cannot  walk  apart 

from  all  this  .  .  . 

Surely  I  am  flesh  of  this  flesh  .  .  . 
How  can  I  go  on  in  loneliness  on  the  shore  when  the  deep 

is  a  cry  and  a  question  and  a  beseeching  of  hands? 
My  folk  is  caught  in  the  sea-nets,  struggling,  blind  and  in 

darkness  .  .  . 
Their  terror  and  ecstasy  are  here  —  not  on  some  distant 

planet  — 
And  I  am  here  .  .  .  What  can  I  do  ?  what  is  my  portion  of 

the  guilt  and  glory  ?  " 

He  held  his  lantern  to  the  crooked  tide-lines, 
And  he  read: 

"  The  fruit  ripens,  and  when  it  is  ripened  it  falls, 
And  the  animals  eat  of  it  ... 

Green   fruit  is  no  gift  to  hungry  mouths  —  but  only  the 
ripened  and  mellow  fruit  .  .  ." 

Walking  on,  he  pondered  the  riddle  .  .  . 

"  Can  it  mean,"  he  mused,  "  that  when  I  am  ripe,  I  too  shall 

be  a  gift? 

It  is  true  I  have  nothing  to  give  to  mankind  but  myself  .  .  . 
Myself  through  my  works  .  .  . 

[  35  ] 


Must  I  let  my  works  ripen  in  me,  and  when  they  are  ripe, 
let  them  drop? 

I  live  through  the  gifts  of  the  sea  —  I  should  die  this  instant 
if  humanity  withheld  its  service,  its  dreams,  its  com 
radeship  .  .  . 

Then  I  must  give  back  all  of  myself  .  .  .  give  back  love  and 
understanding  and  comradeship  and  the  day's  work, 

Yea,  and  the  life-work  .  .  . 

"  And  I  understand,"  he  cried  at  last  .  .  . 

"  To  ripen,  I  must  grow  by  my  own  law, 

Even  as  an  apple  grows  by  its  own  law  .  .  . 

Hence,  I  go  against  others  only  when  they  demand  that  I 

follow  their  law; 

I  must  resist  such  violence,  and  hold  to  my  way  .  .  . 
Only  thus  may  I  become  a  gift  to  the  folk  .  .  . 

But  if  I  join  with  this  group  and  that,  if  I  enter  their  set 

wars,  and  their  sea  of  passions, 

Then  growth  is  warped  by  that  which  is  beyond  the  human, 
Then  again  I  am  only  water  in  water,  a  helpless  wave  of 

the  sea  ... 

The  free  soul  must  give  himself 

But  himself  can  only  emerge  and  be  born  when  he  comes 

out  of  other  selves, 
IWhen  he  obeys,  not  others,  but  himself  .  .  ." 


IV 

Wonderful  as  a  bird  in  the  float  of  the  sunrise  in  the  moun 
tains 

Is  the  sharp  littleness,  the  sun-drinking  solitude  of  the 
redeemed  soul  .  .  . 

Where  there  are  rocks,  and  a  shoulder  of  grassy  Earth, 
The  solitary  stands  in  the  mountain  morning, 
Wind-kissed,  facing  the  dawn  .  .  . 

Here  the  sea-song  is  a  forest-song 
And  here  what  flowed  is  solid  .  .  . 

The  solitary  sings  the  song  of  deliverance  .  .  . 

I  drink  the  sun,  who  drank  only  bitter  waters  .  . 

I  see  hill,  sky  and  grass,  clear  and  chiselled  out  real  by  the 

strokes  of  the  sun-rays  .  .  . 
And  I  that  tossed  in  floundering  seas 
Have  earth  and  rock  underfoot  .  .  . 
Everything  is  solid  as  a  stone 
And  my  soul  is  solid  as  a  stone  .  .  . 

Littleness  is  a  strong  house  to  live  in  ... 
It  is  a  stone  .  .  . 

[37] 


A  stone  that  no  waters  may  wear  away  .  .  . 

From  the  mountains  the  seas  have  departed 
For  seas  are  at  home  only  in  abysses  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  seas  of  the  Earth  the  mountains  rise  up 
Shouting  the  song  of  freedom  .  .  . 

I  that  was  a  sailor  and  a  swimmer  have  become  a  moun 
taineer. 

Gulf  of  heaven,  blue  pocket  of  the  abyss, 

Enveloping  sun-arched   sky   whose   impalpable  dome  melts 

in  the  twilight, 

By  dusk  melted  like  a  dusty  blue  cobweb, 
And  when  the  cobweb  vanishes,  a  symbol  of  Eternity  appears, 
A  star,  and  then  a  bridge  of  stars  suspended  between  the 

piers  of  the  universe, 
And  upward  into  the  abyss  man  looks, 
Standing  on  two  legs  against  the  turning  lump  of  Earth 
With  upraised  face  against  the  wheeling  of  the  worlds  in 

unsheltered  night  .  .  . 

I,  a  man,  stand  as  self-contained  and  solid  in  my  littleness, 
As  you  in  your  vastness  .  .  . 

I  am  human, 

You  are  Cosmos, 

I  would  not  change  places  with  you:  I  would  not  be  else 
where:  I  dream  of  no  past  or  future: 

I  accept  the  present  moment,  the  present  place  and  what 
I  am  ... 

Standing  on  a  hurried  lump  in  the  abyss, 

[  38  ] 


I  claim  myself  .  .  . 

This  is  the  sea-fruit  the  ocean  seeks  ever  to  deliver  from 

its  womb  .  .  . 

This  is  the  child  the  mother  yearned  to  bear 
For  wherefore  the  stormy  passion  of  the  whipped  deep? 
Wherefore  the  freedom-hunger  in  humanity? 
What  is  the  urge  toward  redemption?    what  is  this  terrible 

age-long  cry  for  a  savior? 

Why  does  the  sea  deliver  the  hills  out  of  itself? 
Why  do  they  stand  up,  these  rocks? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  the  dry  land  and  the  peaks? 

As  the  hills  from  the  sea;  so  man  from  the  sea  ... 

The  sea  rises  up  into  rain,  and  the  rain  falls  down  again 

But  if  the  rain  fall  into  the  sea 

It  is  only  water  falling  on  water  .  . 

But  the  hills  laugh  as  they  take  the  rain  in  their  faces, 

And  out  of  the  hills  come  blossoms,  grasses,  flowers  and  fruit, 

And  nibbling  wet  mouths  are  glad  of  fresh  Earth  .  .  . 

The  mountains  are  great 

Because  the  sea  does  not  come  to   them  like  a  devouring 

monster 

But  comes  to  them  only  in  the  mercy  of  rain; 
This  is  a  gift  of  the  sea  to  all  that  is  delivered  out  of  the 

sea  .  .  . 

And  so  when  the  soul  is  delivered 
The  great  sea  sends  spring  rain  over  the  soul  .  .  . 
What  was  sea-water  to  the  soul  when  it  too  was  a  wave  of 

the  sea? 


[  39  ] 


But  now  it  is  of  the  mountains  and  when  the  sea  comes  to  it 
on  the  wings  of  the  clouds  and  dissolves  upon  it  in  rain 

Like  moist  soil  it  drinks  this  mercy  and  feels  the  roots  be 
ginning  to  stir, 

And  the  grass  blades  piercing,  and  the  blossoms  beginning  to 
open  .  .  . 

Now  it  knows  the  joy  and  copious  loving  motherhood  of  the 
sea 

Which  gives  its  free  children  the  rain  of  plenty  .  .  . 

And  the  soul  in  the  distance  beholds  the  blue  sea  among  its 

capes, 
And  in  the  forest  and  in  the  grass  and  echoing  far  over  the 

morning  air 
It  hears  the  song  eternal,  the  song  of  the  sea  ... 


My  song  ends  with  the  song  of  the  sea  ... 
The  song  the  sea  sings   untiringly  on   the  shores  of  the 
world  .  .  . 

One  song,   as  the  planet   flies,   rises   unendingly   from   its 

lips, 
And  in  that  song  the  planet  children  are  enfolded,  and  never 

go  free  of  it, 

And  never  desire  to  go  free  of  it  ... 
For  the  soul  hearing  this  song,  trembles  with  music  to  its 

roots 
And  drinks  the  miracle  drink.  .  .  . 

It  is  the  song  of  the  Mother  forever  near, 

It  is  the  song  of  the  great  Mother  singing  to  her  child  .  •  • 

[40] 


"  O  song,"  sings  the  soul,  "  which  first  I  heard  in  the  neigh 
boring  heart-beats  and  blood  pulses  of  my  mother, 
Song  that  shaped  in  my  own  brain  which  was  a  bay  of  the 

silver-clashing  sea  of  the  past, 
Immemorial   music   that  slips   through   the  mother   in   the 

body  of  the  child  at  the  hour  of  birth, 
And  he  carries  it  into  the  world,  and  he  hears  it  in  tne  world, 
In  the  bodies  of  men  and  women,  in  the  motions  of  nature, 
In  nations,  and  sky,  and  Earth,  and  ocean  .  .  . 

Eternal  song,  eternal  voice  of  the  Mother  .  .  . 

Malformed   Mother,   become   beautiful  and  straight  when 

the  child  finds  freedom  .  .  . 
Mother  who  loves  the  free  .  .  . 
Mother  who  scourges  slaves  but  walks  like  a  comrade  with 

the  emancipated.  .  .  . 

Your  song,  Mother,  sounds  in  my  ears  forever  .  .  . 
And  by  your  song  and  the  song  of  my  soul  married  like 

treble  and  bass,  one  strain,  I  live  and  I  labor, 
And  out  of  your  timeless  wisdom  I  find  my  light, 
And  out  of  your  power,  my  flame  ..." 

Cradle-song  —  voyage-song  —  grave-song  of  humanity  .  .  . 
Song  whose   refrain   is   a   promise,   a   new  vision,   a  new 

symbol  .  .  . 

Symbol  of  the  complete  human  being 
Whose  coming  in  us  all  is  the  hope  of  the  universe  .  .  . 


SONGS  OUT  OF  SOLITUDE 


THE  SHIP  OF  SKIES 

The  ship  of  skies 

Foundered  in  the  west 

And  its  blazing  prow 

Sank  off  some  thundering  shore  beyond  the  silence 

And  dark  green  of  the  world. 

Or  like  ten  rivers 

The  thin-spread  clouds  ran 

Converging  with  vermilion  and  purple  waters 

On  the  western  ledge 

And  pouring  in  flame  over  the  world's  edge  .  .  . 

In  those  bright  regions 

Sails  were  blown  beyond  our  trouble 

And  some  great  action 

Moved  like  song  .  .  . 

But  here  on  tired  Earth 

The  heavy  mist  filled  the  green  runnels  of  valleys ; 

The  weary  air 

Grew  dark  around  the  thrush's  aching  throat ; 

The  house 

Gloomed  itself  silent  and  black  .  .  . 

The  day 

Drowsed  off  to  sleep. 

[  45  ] 


MIST 
I 

i 

In  mist  Monday 

Looms, 

A  world  groping  its  way  on  a  soundless, 

Sightless  sea: 

Breaking  the  mist  like  a  ship 

Stopped  by  bells  .  .  . 

No  ripples: 

No  rain-patter: 

No  hum  of  engines: 

A  dead  ship 

On  the  dead  sea  ... 

But  on  deck  voices 
Clear,  querulous,  human. 


In  the  becalmed  air  of  these  hills 

A  strayed  flicker  pipes, 

A  frog  grunts, 

Footsteps  sound  on  gravel : 

[  46] 


But  the  mountain-garden 

Lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  motionless  ocean, 

And  Earth  is  an  underworld. 

The  forest  has  given  itself  to  the  arms  of  whiteness, 
And  the  hills  wander  like  sheep. 


In  mist  Monday 

Looms, 

A  giant  ship  stopped  on  a  soundless, 

Sightless  sea. 


II 

In  mist  the  soul 
Plaintively  whispers  .  .  . 

"  There  are  tears  too  many,"  it  whispers, 

"And  fears  too  many; 

I  am  weary  of  the  ever-striving, 

I  am  tired  of  tears  .  .  . 

I  am  weary  of  the  groping  and  the  stumbling 

On  the  gray  graves  of  the  years  .  .  . 

"  There  is  memory  of  girls  like  moths  in  the  twilight 

On  the  old  city  waj^s, 

Memory  of  the  gray  twilight  of  the  old  days: 

Memory  of  the  hands  of  children  clutching,  clutching, 

Beloved  faces,  dead,  appear  .  .  . 

Beloved  arms  are  round  my  drooping  head 

And  her  song  is  in  my  ear." 

[47  ] 


Ill 


In  mist  the  world 
Forsakenly  sings  . 


"  Oh,  for  the  old  dead  days  of  peace,"  it  sings, 

"  The  old  sweet  ways  of  peace  .  .  . 

There  were  cities  that  ran  with  the  sunrise  of  wild  youth, 

Our  children  were  alive, 

All  over  again  the  Golden  Fleece  was  to  win 

And  honey  to  gain  for  the  hive  .  .  . 

"  All  over  again  there  was  love's  wild  sweetness  to  win, 

And  the  tale  of  the  home  retold, 

The  golden  breakers  lured  to  a  launching  of  ships 

In  the  years  of  old  .  .  . 

The  aged  of  Earth  could  vanish  away  like  the  night 

Before  the  sun  of  the  young, 

The  human  song  that  has  risen  with  every  spring 

Was  now  to  be  resung  .  .  . 

"  But  the  youth  of  the  world  lies  dead, 
The  young  blood  is  spilled, 
We  shall  live  for  a  long  winter 
Among  the  graves  of  the  killed  .  .  . 
We  shall  live  for  a  long  winter 
Remembering  ways  of  peace, 
Recalling  the  days  of  peace; 
We  shall  grow  old  in  the  knowledge 
We  were  better  dead  with  these." 


[48] 


In  mist  Monday 

Looms, 

A  world  groping  its  way  on  a  soundless, 

Sightless  sea: 

Breaking  the  mist  like  a  ship 

Stopped  by  bells  .  .  . 


[49] 


SILENCE 

And  now 

I  know  how  quiet  a  thing 

And  calm 

Is  freedom  .  .  . 

It  cannot  raise  its  voice  nor  break 

The  rhythm  of  its  breathing  .  .  . 

It  is, — 

Needing  no  song, 

No  trumpets  .  .  . 

It  does  not  cry  nor  laugh 

But  is  silent  .  .  . 

To  give  it  voice 

Silence  should  have  to  turn  to  song. 

But  what  is  song? 

.  Silence  broken. 


[  50] 


RAIN-SONG 

I  hear  the  window, 

It  is  splashed,  lashed: 

I  hear  the  forest, 

There  is  rain  in  the  gesticulating  branches: 

I  hear  the  thrush, 

There  is  rain  in  his  tawny  throat ; 

I  hear  my  mother  in  the  kitchen  singing  as  she  peels  peaches 

There  is  rain  in  her  dark  heart. 


[51] 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

Down  South 's  singing:     "  Darkies, 

Roll  dem  cotton  bales  ..." 

"Tennessee's  ketching  de  Memphis  blues  ..." 

.  .  .  And  a  moon  on  the  Mississippi 

Is  as  sheer  love-mad 

As  a  moon  on  Lake  Michigan  .  .  . 
Lincoln  Park  is  silver-washed  with  lake  ripples: 
Every  dark  spot  is  a  nest  for  two  cool  aching  bodies  .  • 
(I  remember  you,  Chicago  girl, 
And  the  blue  electric  light  on  your  blue  eyes, 
Kisses  with  the  taste  of  soft  coal  smoke  in  them, 
Gossip  with  railroad  yards  in  the  rear.) 

Telephone  bells,  those  rasping  telephone  bells, 
Why  are  they  ringing  in  the  moonlight 
When  folks  should  be  loving  and  singing? 

There  are  too  many  people  in  New  York  City: 

There  are  miles  of  roofs  all  cluttered  with  legs  and  arms 

and  faces: 
There  are  chimney  stacks  all  black  in  the  moon  like  silver 

tarnished  .  .  . 

I  see  a  boy  of  five  on  a  chimney-top 
Nude  against  the  moon 
Urinating  silver  on  the  city  .  .  . 
The  moon  smiles  .  .  . 

[52] 


A  ferry  boat  carries  yellow  waters  about  her, 

Pier  bells  clang  .  .  . 

Beside  a  heap  of  pigiron  on  the  dock  the  'longshoreman's 

daughter 
Is  honeying  the  captain's  son  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  says  the  salesman,  fresh  from  the  Lackawanna  Lim 
ited, 

His  hands  on  the  steel  of  the  ferry  gates, 
"  Say  what  you  want,  there's  nothing  like  her  .  .  . 
Good  old  Girl  .  .  . 

She's  the  skyline  all  right,  all  right  .  .  . 
O  that  Golden  Woolworth  Tower! 
Out  of  five  and  ten  cent  pieces  he  pulled  a  skyscraper 
Biggest  on  Earth  .  .  . 
Democracy,  I  tell  yer  ..." 

They  eat  in  the  Childs'  Restaurants  at  two  in  the  morning: 
Buckwheat  cakes  with  corn  syrup, 
Mugs  of  coffee  on  marble  slabs  .  .  . 


In  New  Orleans,  Deadwood,  Key  West  and  Council  Bluffs, 

In  Portland,  Oregon,  and  Portland,  Maine, 

A  young  woman  has  so  multiplied  her  image 

That  while  she  sits  in  the  flesh  sipping  a  lemonade  in  Los 

Angeles, 
The  movie  millions  laugh  and  cry,  watching  her  loveliness 

in  rags  in  the  Rockies  .  .  . 
"Ain't  Mary  Pickford  a  darling?" 

The  Baltimore  trolley  cars  go  jammed  with  summer  fluff 
and  straw  hats 

[  S3  ] 


Out  to  Electric  City, 
Blazing,  booming,  shrieking  .  .  . 
And  come  back  crowded  down  silent  avenues  .  .  . 
(Trolleys  along  the  Atlantic  Coast, 
Trolleys  in  the  Alleghanies, 

Trolleys  making  the  loop  in  soot-soft  Pittsburgh, 
Trolleys  in   the   dark  streaking   a   flare   through   moon-lit 
countryside.) 

Coney  Island  skims  golden  platters  along  the  edge  of  the 

Atlantic  Ocean  .  .  . 

Ten  young  dolphin  women  sport  in  the  heaving  breakers, 
They   shriek    and    scatter    as    the    lifeboat   swings    among 

them  .  .  . 

Down  beside  the  cottonfields 

A  line  of  shanties: 

Mammy  sings :  "  Deep  River," 

With  a  dark  child  at  her  bosom  .  .  . 

Pickaninny  cries  like  white  trash  for  the  moon  .  .  . 

The  young  negroes  are  singing 

Banjo-tunes  .  .  . 

On  door-steps  in  Denver 

The  white  shimmering  girls 

Laugh  lightly  while  the  spick-and-span  boys 

Try  to  be  men  in  love  .  .  . 

Above  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado, 

A  little  out  of  St.  Paul, 

Not  far  from  Clevaland, 

In  the  swaying  cushioned  Pullmans  under  yellow  bulbs 

The  porters  are  making  up  the  berths  .  .  . 

[  54] 


All  the  commercial  American  hotels 

Have  electric  lights,  individual  bathrooms,  valet  service,  and 
are  fireproof  skyscrapers  .  .  . 

Conventions  are  breaking  up  their  meetings  in  the  ball 
rooms  .  .  . 

Out    in     the    streets    the    cars    clash,    the     boys    shout 


Atlanta  is  sweltering  tonight, 
But  Minneapolis  is  cool  .  .  . 

New   York   is    full   of    the   sea,    lazy   warm   and   moon- 
drunk  .  .  . 

It's  odd  to  think  that  the  hospitals,  the  almshouses,  and  the 

Morgues 

Are  crowded  with  wrecks  and  corpses  .  .  . 
It's  odd  to  think  of  suicides  in  hall  bedrooms,  or  down  by 

the  dreaming  sea,  or  along  the  Ohio  .  .  . 
It's  odd  to  think  of  an  East-Side  room  in  gaslight 
And  a  greasy  father  with  a  grand  passion 
Tearing    his    hair    like    Othello    because   his    daughter    is 

ruined  .  .  . 

Killing,   thieving,   quarreling,  hunger  — 
America    is    like    a    bloated    body    swelling   with    baulked 

desire  .  .  . 

The  air  grows  hotter,  the  din  louder, 
Glasses   are   snapped,    the   wine   spills   over,    the   carousel 

whirls, 

The  moon  pours  madness, 
The  moon  has  turned  our  brains,  and  the  wild  demon  is 

loosed.  .  . 

[55] 


Yet  where  the  garden 

Glories  over  the  rocks  of  the  mountain, 

Larkspur  and  rose  look  faded  in  the  brilliant  moon; 

They  die  into  the  dew-touched  air, 

And  in  the  quiet 

Two  lovers  sigh,  content  .  .  . 

Their  world,  a  circle  of  hills, 

A  moon,  a  bed,  themselves  .  .  . 

All  night  long  the  Pittsburgh  foundries  flare: 

You  can't  turn  off  the  furnaces,  you  can't  put  out  the  fires: 

The  United  States  with  electric  lights 

Sparkles  all  night  long  .  .  . 


[56] 


NOCTURNE 


Moonlight  and  Autumn:  floods  of  silver, 
A  waterfall, 

Pour  over  cliffs  of  space 

On  crouching  hills  and  camel-backed  forests  and  crowded 
gardens. 

I,  too,  a  moon  reflect 
The  essence  of  sunlight  of  old  days 
And  in  the  silver  of  memory 
Relive  youth 


The  city  holds  up  her  chimneys  like  rain-barrels  to  catch 

moonlight, 

The  ocean  drinks  silver 

To  bathe  in  a  pale  tinge  of  green  her  ships  and  fishes, 
A  woman  leans  from  a  window 
And  is  a  silver  shower 
On  my  heart  beneath. 

[  57  ] 


Wash  after  dying  wash 

The  sea,  low-singing,  spans  the  illimitable  shadow  of  the 

shore 

With  silver  bridges  .  .  . 
One  pine  has  moon-soaked  needles 
That  faintly  rustle  when  the  night  breathes  .  .  . 
Silence  \ 

Throbs  in  the  ear-drums,  as  if  in  the  highest  skies 
A  music  of  stars 
Were  played  behind  walls  of  glass,  and  I  could  not  hear  .  .  . 


A  child  looks  up  through  the  window  from  his  bed 

And  the  face  of  the  moon  is  the  countenance  of  his  first  god ; 

His  eyes  stained  silver 

Are  round  with  awe. 

Now,  years  later, 

I  mercilessly  stare  through  changed  vision 

At  a  dead  planet. 


A  boy  is  kissing  a  girl 

In  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  ...  the  long  street 

Sounds  empty  beside  them,  vacantly  gray  in  the  moon 

Her  hair  is  soft  in  his  hand, 

Her  lips 

Are  trembling  hotly  at  his  ... 

[  58] 


A  passion  of  old  cities 
Pours  a  thrill  through  their  hearts, 
An  old  passion  of  desperate  love 
Binds  them  with  warm  arms  .  .  . 


The    watchman    is    trying    the    doors,    and    stalks    by, 

smiling  .  .  . 
A  ripple  of  sea-wind,  singing  a  silver  moon-song,  trips  up 

the  street  .  .  . 

But  this  passes  in  fire 

From  lips  to  lips,  to  the  beloved  woman, 

And  what  was,  is, 

Old  love,  a  gift  to  new. 


II 

•   I 

Night  grows  vaster 
With  simulation  of  intense  death  .  .  . 

At  one  o'clock 

The  mountain-farm  sleeps 

In  coop  and  stable,  barn  and  house; 

The  forest  slumbers 

Like  an  eagle  spread-wing  on  her  brood  .  . 

Nests  are  a  rhythm  of  faint  dream, 

Gardens  are  graves  .  .  . 


[  59] 


Like  the  last  soul  alive  on  a  dead  planet 

I  sit  with  my  candle, 

Unmoved  by  the  majestic  march  of  silence 

My  open  window 

Is  a  chute  for  moon-beams; 

Transfigured,  the  floor  receives  them  .  .  . 


In  intense,  vast  death 

My  brain  burns, 

Burns  like  the  candle: 

We  are  two  flames  .  .  . 

We  two  are  awake  and  burning  into  the  night  .  .  . 

My  brain  burns: 

Vivid  reaches  of  battleground,  heaped  with  young  bodies 

Streets  of  secret  windows : 

Faces  remembered  . 


Silence  marches  with  invisible  ranks  from  sky  to  sky, 

From  coast  to  coast; 

My  blood-drops  move  in  their  courses 

As  the  planets  in  theirs  .  .  . 

The  moon  like  a  prow 
Plows  the  ocean  of  ether  .  .  . 
And  my  soul  is  a  moon 

[60] 


Catching  the  light  of  my  lost  sun 

And  sieving  it  through  silver 

For  a  spread  over  seas  and  dunes,  over  cities  and  hills, 

To  behold  the  perishing  living  through  the  immortal  dead. 


Ill 

I 

Who  loves  the  night 

When  light 

Is  of  other  worlds  and  of  other  times? 

Who  shrinks  from  seeing  faces  as  they  are, 

And  dust, 

And  glaring  streets  of  noon, 

And  garbage? 

Whose  soul  sheds  on  the  world 
Silvery  beams 

Of  time-transfigured  memories, 
Blurring  the  angles  with  twilight, 
Burying  the  ugly  in  shadow? 


The  meadow-lark  drops 
His  sunny  dew  of  song 
On  meadow-grass  .  .  . 

Robin  is  in  the  garden 
Wetting  his  wings  among  the  roses: 

[  61  ] 


A  myriad  of  lives 

Take  away  the  lonely  nocturne  of  my  heart. 

Harvests  to  gather,  apples  to  crate, 
Grapes  for  the  crushing  .  .  . 
Squirrels  and  farmer  are  afoot  .  .  . 
The  woods  jet  scarlet. 


Such  a  fire  in  the  skies  is  the  sun 

My  moon  pales,  and  whitens,  dying  .  .  . 

The  strength  of  fire 

Quenches  my  stars  and  shuts  through  my  boundless  soul 

A  narrow  sky  of  day  .  .  . 

My  blood  sets  toward  the  task,  my  spirit  is  whittled 

To  a  blade  of  deeds.  .  .  . 

The  hidden  is  revealed, 
The  revealed  is  hidde 


[62 


GRAY  EVENING 

In  the  loved  melancholy  of  gray  evening 
We  smoke  and  are  still  .  .  . 

In  the  loved  melancholy  of  gray  evening 
Mountains  rimming  the  world  in  a  misty  ring 
Circle  our  hill  of  dark  green  timber,  and  wild  garden,  and 
rose-pillared  house. 

Roll,  you  clouds,  from  east  to  west, 

You    smokes    from    the    pipe    of    the    coming 

Night  .  .  . 

Glistening  he  comes,  the  shaggy  wanderer, 
Brooding  on  the  dark  hard  Earth. 

Round  us  the  trees  are  singing 
A  reminiscence  from  the  dawn  of  time 
When  their  tops  peeped  from  the  floods 
And  the  song  of  the  sea  was  heard  .  .  . 

Like  surf,  they  sing  .  .  . 

In  the  loved  melancholy  of  gray  evening 
This  sound  has  the  joy  of  strong  dark  things. 


Roll,  you  smokes,  from  east  to  west, 
The  gray  old  Chief  puffs  his  pipe  of  Peace  .  .  . 
His  cold  rain-air  shall  be  lead  on  our  eyelids 
And  deep  sleep  draw  us  down  .  .  . 

We  smoke  and  are  still : 

The  heart  is  vague  with  strong  dark  things,  with  roots  and 

Earth, 

With  age  like  rocks; 
Its  throb  is  warm  with  the  dark  human. 

But  we  are  still, 

But  we  are  very  still, 

In  the  loved  melancholy  of  gray  evening, 

O  hushed,  remote  and  still, 

In  the  loved  melancholy  of  gray  evening. 


MORNING  SONG 

Morning  is  my  time. 

I  must  have  the  early  sun  shine  through  this  song. 

I  love  the  sky  cloudless,  a  radiance  of  quivering  blue, 

The  sun  not  too  high  up : 

The  month  May  or  October: 

A  blithe  hardiness  in  the  wind,  and  the  budding  or  harvest 

of  flowers: 

The  earliest  or  latest  birds: 
The  city  streets  golden  with  a  spring  morning  and  gay  with 

toilers, 
Or  brilliant  with  autumn  and  the  more  zestful  air  ... 

Happy  is  the  man  who  wakes  up  fresh  from  sound  sleep, 
A  song  in  his  heart,  vigorously  rising  and  bathing  himself, 
Ardent  with  thirst  for  vivid  life, 

Laughing  that  his  eyes  do  not  open  on  some  other  planet, 
But  they  open  here,  and  he  finds  himself  at  home  in  the  old 

Earth, 

And  meets  again  the  people  he  knows, 
The  woman  he  loves,  his  children,  his  enterprises, 
And  goes  to  his  work  throbbing  with  the  news  of  the  world, 
And  loves  his  work  —  the  machinery,  the  puzzling  prob 
lems — 

And  comes  home  at  night  for  his  silence  among  books, 
Or  his  vibrant  speech  among  familiar  friends, 
Or  the  mystery  of  union  with  the  woman  .  .  . 

[  65  ] 


Happier  is  this  man  if  he  is  an  in-goer  as  well  as  an  out-goer, 
If  he  is  a  traveler  and  explorer  in  the  interior  life  of  man, 
At  home  with  all  visions,  the  processions  of  the  stars  and 

of  the  ages, 
The  daring  and  defiant  intuitions  of  the  soul  .  .  . 

I  have  been  doubting  and  drooping  .  .  . 

I  am  one  of  those  who  are  born  with  a  stoop-shouldered 

spirit  — 

I  am  a  night-soul,  son  of  the  darkness  .  .  . 
No  wonder  I  love  the  morning  and  the  unclouded  dazzle 

of  the  sun, 

And  the  unselfconscious  joy  of  birds, 
And  am  drawn  mightily  to  women  who  sparkle,  sport  and 

laugh, 
And  adventurous  men  of  action  .  .  . 

But  in  myself,  I  am  only  too  ready  to  lean  to  my  own  be 
loved  darkness, 

The  temptation  of  sorrow  and  lament, 
The  baying  of  the  hounds  of  hate  and  suspicion, 
Jealousy,  distrust  and  suffering: 

I  am  only  too  ready  to  give  myself  to  the  tide  of  blackness, 
Voluptuary  of  despair  .  .  . 

Stand  up,  my  soul :  this  is  a  good  morning  for  a  fresh  start, 
The  snow  lies  on  the  sills,  and  is  thick  on  the  pavements, 
The  air  is  keen,  the  city  at  work  .  .  . 

Is  not  this  the  darkest  year  of  the  Earth  ? 

So  much  more  the  need  of  courage,  boldness,  battle,  faith! 


[66] 


THE  RAINBOW 


The  storm  dies  .  .  . 

Clouds, 

Their  black  anger  spent, 

Soften  into  creamy  gauze,  and  float  apart,  and  heaven 

Bathed,  breaks  blue  .  .  . 

West 

The  low  sun  pours  fire 

Through  a  white  well, 

East 

A  rainbow 

Trembles  .  .  . 

Round  us  the  Earth 
Laughs  rainily  .  .  . 
The  wet  garden  sparkles, 
The  wet  robin  sings  .  .  . 

The  hard  rain  flailed 

Fragrance  from  grass  and  dust  and  mint  and  rose 

And  the  air 

Is  perfume  .  .  . 


We  drink, 

As  if  the  body  were  a  mouth, 

The  seen  world  of  brilliant  hills 

Sunned  and  rainbowed, 

The  tasted  world,  fresh,  cool,  and  odorous, 

The    heard    world    of    wind-dapple,    bird-song,    human 

voices  .  .  . 
And  the  felt  world 
Of  heavenly  peace. 

The  rainbow  arches 
From  soul  to  soul, 
Our  dark  clouds  whiten, 
Floating  like  reveries  of  song, 
Blue  of  heaven  breaks 
Through  the  heart's  fire  .  .  . 
Together  we  laugh  low, 
At  peace. 


Here  is  peace  .  .  . 

But  that  black  storm, 

That  whirlwind  storm, 

Thunders  through  the  human  world, 

Stripping  the  forest  of  a  generation 

Of  blossoms  and  young  leaves  .  .  . 

Millions, 

Upgazing, 

Wait  for  the  divine  arch  whereunder 

Armies  shall  march  with  evening  song 

Of  heavenly  peace, 

[  68  ] 


And  the  perfumed  winds 

Blow  off  the  sulphurous  vapors 

And  the  sky's  blue 

Break  through  the  battle-smoke  .  .  . 

They  wait,  dying; 
And  it  comes  too  late 
For  the  world's  youth, 
And  it  comes  never 
For  doomed  humanity  .  .  . 

For  this  is  a  storm 

Which  has  raged  since  the  dawn  of  time, 

This  is  a  storm 

Between  the  demons  and  gods  in  the  human  soul, 

This  is  a  storm 

Under  every  roof  of  man, 

And  in  every  body  of  flesh  .  .  . 

But  this  generation 

Has  gathered  each  soul's  tempest  into  one  black  heaven 

Of  rolling  lightning-riven  storm, 

And  the  deep  horror  of  humanity 

Is  nakedly  revealed 

In  one  great  Doomsday  .  .  . 


HI 


Shall  peace  be  peace? 

It  shall  not  be 

Save  along  the  path  of  the  ascension, 

The  path  no  eyes  have  seen, 

No  feet  have  felt  .  .  . 

[  69] 


Above  man  lies  peace, 

Among  the  evening  hills 

Where  the  late  robin 

Sings  in  the  sparkling  garden, 

Where  the  rainbow 

Trembles  in  the  east, 

Where  the  sinking  sun 

Pours  splendor  through  a  well  of  cloud  .  .  . 

Above  man 

And  his  unregenerate  desires, 

His  power-hunger,  primal  lust, 

Above  man 

In  a  world  which  the  race  inhabits  with  hills  and  animals, 

With  sun  and  storm, 

A  world  vaster 

Than  cities  and  empires, 

A  world  where  the  gods 

Envelop  and  transcend  the  marketplace, 

A  world  whose  prizes 

Are  not  fame  or  power  or  wealth, 

But  that  blest  harmony 

Which  pays  itself  .  .  . 


Among  those  hills  ascended 

The  spirit  stands  alone,  and  says,  * 

And  to  God,  "  Thou  art," 

And  to  Nature,  "  Thou,  too,  art/ 

And  to  man,  "  Thou  art, 

But  what  thou  seekest,  I  seek  not, 

In  this  ascension." 

1 70] 


"  I  am," 


When  man  overcomes  man 
Then  peace  dawns, 
The  storm  dies  .  .  . 
And  in  the  west 
The  low  sun  pours  fire 
Through  a  white  well, 
And  in  the  east 
A  rainbow  / 

Trembles  . 


[71  ] 


SHADOW 

Sundown  tonight 

Is  not  like  something  out  in  the  world, 

But  like  a  memory 

Seen  in  vague  pictures  of  the  mind  .  .  . 

Ashes  of  sunset, 

And  mournful  remembrances  in  gray 

In  some  west  beyond  the  west, 

And  the  sickle  moon 

Like  the  sun's  ghost  remaining  behind, 

Tinted  with  the  transient  colors  of  the  changing  dusk, 

And  Earth 

Mourning,  not  really,  but  in  echoes 

Through  the  windy  darkness  of  phantom  trees 

And  night 

Closing  cold  on  the  heart  .  .  . 

Closing  cold 

On  the  chill  tomb  of  the  shrouded  memories  .  .  . 

No  moon-memories 

Of  beautiful  dancers  bathed  by  moonlight, 

Wild  loves  by  wilder  seas, 

And  youth  singing  on  the  gleaming  housetops, 

But  the  damp  cellar-ghosts, 

The  ugly  insane  spirits, 

Death's-head  revellers  .  .  . 

[   72   ] 


Evil  is  evil,  throbs  the  heart, 

Evil  is  evil  .  .  . 

From  their  gigantic  graves  in  man 

The  titanic  powers 

Break,  and  with  steps  of  earthquake,  stalk, 

Proclaiming  war  .  .  . 

The  multitudes  of  the  Earth  are  gathered  in  a  jungle, 

The  torches  flare  under  the  new  moon, 

In  the  phantom  forest  the  naked  millions 

Hold  orgy, 

Calling  on  Mumbo- Jumbo  and  Satan, 

Breaking  the  taboo  of  blood, 

And  in  dionysian  fury 

Doing  massive  murder  .  .  . 

Let  not  the  murderer  call 
His  trade  by  a  noble  name, 
But  let  us  look  on  the  dead 
And  see  the  naked  evil  . 


For  Doomsday  is  upon  us,  and  this  is  the  great  harvesting  of 

human  evil, 

Now  we  reveal  what  we  are 
Though  we  say  what  we  are  is  the  enemy, 
We  lay  bare  the  buried, 
Ourselves  the  harvesters  and  the  harvest, 
We  are  cut  down  in  our  ripe  evil 
And  are  done  to  death,  self-slaughtered  .  .  * 

No  God  overlooks  the  battle, 
There  are  no  Valkyries  to  bear  the  heroes  to  bliss, 

[  73  ] 


No  Jove  and  no  Jehovah 

Blend  this  vengeance  with  pity, 

No  Jesus  walks  through  the  mangled  corn  of  No  Man's 

Land  .  .  . 

We  that  have  slain  our  gods 
Gaze  at  empty  skies, 
But  robed  with  their  unslayable  power 
We  would-be  gods  are  demons  .  .  . 

It  is  madness 

That  dooms  the  world, 

For  we  have  been  far  too  sane  to  behold 

The  irrational  glory  beyond  our  powers, 

Far  too  sane 

To  conquer  our  machinery 

With  senseless  pity  and  love, 

Far  too  sane 

For  meditation  and  self-conquest  .  .  . 

But  the  heart  has  a  power  in  it 

Which  becomes  a  devastation 

If  it  is  not  released  in  splendor, 

And  the  universe 

Is  forever  unconquerable  and  its  majesty 

Forever  awful  .  .  . 

Dreaming  we  have  slain  mystery 

We  are  toys  of  a  mysterious  doom, 

And  dreaming  that  we  are  gods  of  intelligence, 

Look,  we  are  slaves  of  murderous  passion  .  .  . 

We  aimed  at  a  garden 

And  wrought  a  shambles, 

We  dreamed  of  a  Golden  City 

And  made  a  Land  of  Graves  .  .  . 

[74] 


The  midnight  passes 

But  the  madness  does  not  pass  .  .  . 

It  burns  itself  out  like  a  conflagration, 

And  in  the  wild  light 

The  orgy  continues, 

And  shall  continue 

Till  the  ashes  of  a  civilization 

Become  the  tomb  of  a  race. 


[75] 


HYMN  TO  DEATH 

I  would  raise  a  slow  and  majestic  hymn  to  Death, 
I  would  sing  over  the  dust  .  .  . 
The  ages  open,  and  they  are  bins  of  dust, 
They  are  bins  of  the  dust  of  the  once-dreaming  clay, 
They  are  valleys  mounded  over 

With  dust  of  our  unremembereJ,  our  fathers  and  moth 
ers  ... 

And  we  shall  bring 

As  gifts  our  bodies  and  all  of  our  troubled  splendor 
To  crumble  with  them,  to  be  silent  with  them  .  .  . 

We  have  come  through  the  dark  entry  to  this  life, 

We  have  lived  a  little  while  with  love  and  longing, 

Now  in  the  end  we  go 

To  cool  quiet, 

Now  in  the  end 

There  is  a  laying  down  of  what  has  risen  up  ... 

We  have  had  youth  and  desire, 

We  have  not  been  troubled  by  ghosts; 

Yoked  with  a  god  we  fought  for  the  glory  of  fame, 

And  the  crown  of  power; 

We  ate  the  bread,  we  drank  the  wine,  flesh  lay  with  flesh; 

But  the  bats  of  the  summer  dusk  are  weaving 

Cobweb  vestures  for  the  dead, 

And  in  the  brown  air  ghosts 

Crowd  through  the  gates  of  the  ages. 

[76] 


Before  we  were  born  we  were  indentured  to  the  dark  Master, 
And  we  carry  a  bond  in  our  hearts  that  must  be  sealed  .  .  . 
When  the  Master  calls,  we  turn,  stricken,  and  go 
Naked  and  queerly  alone  to  the  dark  exit, 
And  none  is  beside  us,  and  the  last  clasp  is  unloosened, 
And  silence  and  darkness  take  us. 

We  but  experience 

What  all  have  known: 

We  but  endure 

What  every  living  soul  has  alone  suffered: 

Eager  or  reluctant  we  too  travel  a  road  more  worn 

With  human  feet  than  all  others  .  .  . 

We  that  have  sung,  are  silent, 

And  we  that  have  fought,  are  princes  of  peace  .  .  . 

We  make  our  bivouac  with  an  unending  night 

And  even  dreams  are  done. 

Yet  are  we  lovers 

Of  all-erasing  Death: 

Life  was  a  restless  bride  we  ravished 

But  never  won, 

We  lay  with  her  in  the  midst  of  battle  and  our  kisses  were 

vain  : 

Our  love  grew  feverish,  baulked, 
Our  tears  dropped  round  our  laughter  .  .  . 
All  that  we  snatched  from  her,  was  a  flame  that  passed, 
And  all  that  we  gave,  turned  ashes  .  .  . 

It  was  then  we  heard 
Another  love-call  in  our  hearts, 
A  longing  after  some  healing,  old  and  forgotten ; 
It  was  then  the  calm  beloved  face  of  Death  appeared 

[  77] 


Far  in  the  backward  mist  of  our  depths; 
It  was  then  that  silence  became  our  treasure, 
And  sleep  grew  sweet  .  .  . 

Then  we  found  we  were 

Shelterless  and  unmothered  multitudes, 

Then  we  drew  again 

Great  wings  of  love  over  our  skies, 

Dark  wings  of  one  who  broods 

And  gives  solace  and  silence  .  .  . 

I  would  raise  a  slow  and  majestic  hymn  to  Death, 

I  would  sing  over  the  dust  .  .  . 

I  would  set  aflutter  the  starry  veil  of  Night 

That  she  wears,  sitting  in  the  Beep  ; 

I  would  lift  the  veil,  and  see  the  shadows  of  her  arms, 

And  her  beautiful  dark  face, 

I  would  see  in  her  eternal  arms  the  races  of  men 

Resting  forever; 

I  would  see  her  grave  and  understanding  eyes  that  look  upon 

man; 

I  would  know  the  other  love,  which  is  cool  and  calm ; 
And  I  would  praise  Death,  the  secret  bride. 


[78] 


SUNSET 


i 

Now  is  sunset, 
The  nightfall  lightens 
Over  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  day  .  .  . 

On  a  balcony  we 

Sweep  the  round  world  whose  rim 

Is  edged  with  fire  ... 

Unstirring  cumulus  cloud 

Is  purple  and  scarlet  .  .  .  bearded  cloud  of  the  west 

Is  incandescent  .  .  . 

Beyond  and  below 

Our  planet  is  a  fire,  and  the  flaming 

Makes  our  sky  a  glory  over  the  dark  green  Earth  .  . 

A  painted  glory: 

No  wind  breathes: 

No  tree  stirs: 

The  world  of  life  for  a  breathless  moment 

Is  ordered  and  is  art : 

But  we  live  .  .  . 

[79  J 


Inarticulate,  stripped  of  desire, 

Motionless, 

We  yet  live  .  .  < 

Our  lifted  faces  are  lighted, 

Our  bodies  are  torches  touched  to  the  fixed  fire  of  sunset 

And  kindled  with  the  unburning  flame  of  dream  .  .  . 

We  see  the  little  cottage 
Painted  among  the  painted  trees : 
We  see  the  clover  fields,  lush  green, 
The  western  hills,  dark  blue, 
The  wild,  windless  garden, 
Gray  stones  .  .  , 

Daring  to  tap  and  crack  this  glass  of  silence 
A  robin  tweets  . 


Earth  never  seemed  capable  of  this: 

Her  beautiful  hours 

Sweet  with  orchards  or  rough  with  rain-storm 

Or  grave  with  stars 

Came  with  the  ease  of  familiar  things 

Woven  of  the  weather  of  the  human  heart: 

But  this 

Is  not  of  the  Earth  we  know : 

And  our  eyes  see 

A  life  or  a  death  beyond  and  behind,  within  and  without 

Our  life  ,  .  • 

[so] 


We  live,  but  neither  memory 

Nor  yet  vision 

Warms  the  naked  moment  .  .  i 

We  merely  breathe,  gaze  and  wonder  .  .  . 

We  only  know 

That  the  world  of  human  life  is  a  capsule 

Floating  in  vaster  existences, 

And  that  the  melting  of  it 

Would  be  no  death 

But  an  emergence  .  .  . 

II 

I 

Earth,  over  her  rims, 
Is  a  fire  .  .  . 

The  human  world,  builded  by  hands, 
Ivied  by  ages, 

The  human  soul,  born  out  of  nature, 
And  in  splendor  of  superstition 
And  tear-bought  wisdom 
Grown  rich  and  weary, 
Are  at  end  of  Day, 
In  sunset  .  .  . 

The  magic  capsule 

Glowing  inside  with  cathedrals  and  colliseums, 

Sounding  with  an  endless  song, 

Lighted  with  heroes  and  with  gods, 

With  dreams  swaying  crowds, 

Is  melting  .  .  . 

The  world  begun  by  Egypt  and  Babylonia, 
Built  temple-high  by  Greece, 

[81  ] 


And  pinnacled  by  Europe, 
Dissolves  . 


We  did  not  know 

That  the  accustomed,  the  fixed  eternal, 

Could  become  a  phantom 

And  fade  in  dying  light  of  its  own  sun 

No  dream  of  Doomsday 

Could  forbode  the  doom  .  .  . 

But  it  is  here,  with  the  whole  planet 

Raimented  in  flame  .  .  . 

The  whole  planet 

On  its    funeral  pyre  .  .  . 

And  the  sun  sets 

That  rose  on  Pharaoh, 

And  the  day  ends 

That  dawned  with  Homer  . 


It  ends,  yet  the  spared  live; 

They  live, 

But  neither  memory  nor  vision 

Warms  the  naked  moment; 

They  merely  breathe,  gaze  and  wonder 

And  the  doom  falls 

On  silence  .  .  . 

[82] 


Ill 


They  live  and  gazing 

In  tnis  visionary  hour 

They  see  a  trace  of  the  world  outside 

The  dissolving  world  .  .  . 

And  they  know 

That  world  has  been  slowly  dawning 

And  the  light  of  its  growing  dawn 

Mingles  with  this  sunset 

And  gives  it  this  breathless  splendor  .  .  . 

That  dawn  rose 

In  brains  like  Galileo's, 

Its  light  gathered 

In  spirits  like  Darwin's; 

Its  kindled  sun 

Burnt  out  the  old  sun, 

And  the  djang  creatures  of  that  sun 

Sink  in  the  beams  of  the  new  human  fire-god  .  .  . 

2 

Those  beams  shall  break 

On  the  young  green  of  a  new  spring, 

With  the  nations  gathered  in  a  single  song 

And  the  bright  intelligence 

Of  a  new  youth  raying  through  the  human  spirit  .  .  . 

With  a  new  self 

For  each  soul  that  wins  it,  orbed  like  a  fresh-born  planet, 

And  swinging  in  harmony  with  all  other  planets; 

With  a  new  sky 


Storm-cleansed  of  old  demons  and  gods, 

With  a  new  earth 

For  new  adventures  .  .  . 


Those  beams  shall  break 

On  the  second  Day  of  Man: 

But  in  this  hour 

Of  awful  sunset 

We  do  not  know  that  Day: 

We  only  know 

Our  dissolving  world  floats  in  a  vaster  existence, 

And  this  dissolution 

Is  no  death, 

But  an  emergence. 


[  84] 


SONGS  OUT  OF  MULTITUDE 


EUROPA 

EUROPA 

The  dark  years,  the  dreadful  years  are  upon  me  ... 

THE   VOICE   OF   EGYPT 

Whither  goest  thou,  Europa,  whither  goest  thou  dusty  and 
grown  aged  and  withering  at  the  breasts? 

Thou  hast  not  crouched  in  the  desert,  mouthing  the  sand 
storm, 

Remembering  thy  Ptolemies,  and  she  that  floated  golden 
down  the  Nile  and  so 

Down  the  stream  of  the  ages  of  the  memories  of  man  .  .  . 

EUROPA 

But  the  dark  years,  and  the  days  of  bleak  old  age  are  upon 

me  ... 
Once  my  rosy  nipples  were  lipped  by  nations  and  a  great 

people  drank  of  them  .  .  . 
A  great  people  with  kings  on  horseback,  and  a  multitude  of 

banners  went  down  the  breeze,  and  their  bards 
Gathered  them  in  nations  .  .  . 

THE    VOICE    OF    PERSIA 

What  hag  is  this,  that  against  the  black  rifts  of  the  storm, 

and  blown  by  the  tempest 
Stalks  crazily,  mumbling?     Is  it  thou,  Europa? 

[87] 


Thou  hast  not  seen  great  Babylon  fallen,  gone  down  with 

Marduk, 
Nor  thine  empire  with  such  great  kings  as  mine  in  Susa  and 

in  Ninevah 

Struck  to  the  Earth  by  a  sudden  Alexander  .  .  . 
Thou  art  not  merely  an  Asian  breath  from  beyond  the  desert 

and  the  ancient  rivers 
Strange  with  Assyrian  song  and  Arabian  rumor  .  .  . 

EUROPA 

I  wither  in  a  great  noise :     I  shrink  and  grow  dry  and  barren 

in  a  splendid  thunder: 
I  am  stripped  of  the  glory  of  the  presence  of  God,  and  the 

grace  of  my  children's  Father : 
My  song  is  stopped,  and  my  vision  has  crumbled  with  the 

drooping  of  my  breasts  .  .  . 

THE   VOICE   OF   GREECE 

What  chariots  roll  by,  horseless,  smoking  and  spitting  flame 

like  the  dragon? 

My  smokes  curled  from  the  bivouac-fires  on  the  shores, 
And  from  the  kindly  hearth  where  the  housewife,  spinner 

of  golden  yarns, 

Sat  in  purple  shadows,  weaving  .  .  . 
But  what  smokes  are  these,  stormy  and  black,  that  go  up 

out  of  the  disemboweled  Earth, 

Dreadful,  and  as  a  vapor  herself,  this  old  woman  wanders? 
Is  it  thou,  Europa,  conqueress  of  antiquity? 
Is  it  thou,  wrailing? 

EUROPA 

Greece,  they  have  despoiled  me!     Mine  enemy  comes,  the 
merciless  scalpel-user,  he,  cunning  with  tools, 
[88  ] 


Glass-eyed    Science,    whose   sapless   children   have  songless 

names  —  Industrialism,  pah!  and  Democracy! 
They  that  care  nothing  for  man's  glory,  but  stoop  low 
Probing  in  entrails,  spewing  their  filth  out  of  mills, 
Slaying  my  Gods,  and  my  prophets,  and  the  grandeur  of 

heroes, 
For  a  base  business  of  comfort  and  a  littleness  of  deeds  and 

of  people  .  .  . 
I  wither,   my  heart  like  a  dried  flower-pod:  the  heavens 

are  empty. 

THE   VOICE    OF   ROME 

What  is  this  iron  on  the  seas,  and  what  is  this  beating  of  a 

heart  of  steel? 
Loud  bells  clamor,  and  there  are  glaring  cities  smothered  in 

the  fume  of  their  own  mouths ! 
Where   goest   thou,   Europa?     And  why   art  thou   as  one 

scared  by  lions  in  the  arena? 

Thou  hast  no  Rome  to  mourn,  and  the  imperial  eagles 
Screaming  in  death-throes  before  the  tramplings  of  the  Huns ! 

EUROPA 

Rome,  thine  agony  to  mine,  is  as  a  child's  to  the  woe  of  a 

woman  whose  love  is  slain  in  her  heart, 
For  thy  death  was  my  birth,  but  my  dying  is  the  dying  of 

the  race  of  man, 

The  proud  white  conqueror  dies  in  me  .  .  . 
Man,  white  in  his  glory,  in  pomp  against  the  heavens, 
Armed  with  his  God,  is  gone  .  .  . 

THE    VOICE    OF    SYRIA 

Who  art  thou,  great  old  woman,  fallen  down  on  the  banks 
of  darkness, 


And  writhing  as  if  a  serpent  coiled  in  thy  womb? 

Did  I  not  send  thee  Asia  for  a  staff  and  a  vision  against  the 

North? 
Did  I  not  send  thee  the  love  of  the  young  man,  Jesus,  who 

died  so  early, 
And  in  that  love  wert  thou  not  young  and  more  beautiful 

than  antiquity 
Building  with  thy  fingers  spired  churches  and  sending  men 

up  spiral  stairways 
Into  the  ante-chambers  of  the  Lord? 
Art  thou  not  healed  in  Christ? 

EUROPA 

O  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  thou  that  stonest  the  prophets, 

Jesus  is  slain  a  second  time,  and  I  am  the  Cross  .  .  . 

For  the  people  are  very  busy  with  their  engines  and  with 

their  formulas, 

Soft  in  their  comforts,  stinking  in  their  poverty,  they  stir, 
Scrambling,  forgetting,  far  from  me  ... 

(Silence) 
THE   VOICE   OF   ANTIQUITY 

With  what  swellest  thou,  Europa,  and  with  what  quickenest 

thou 
So  tnat  thou  bowest  with  the  burden  of  all  women? 

EUROPA 

God,  what  stirring  is  this,  what  ancient  stirring? 
My  flesh  quivers,  and  a  piercing  pain  is  in  my  body. 
Can  these  bones  shelter  a  child,  can  these  sagging  breasts 
ripen  again  with  milk? 

[  90] 


Can  the  blasted  pine  on  the  heath  blossom  and  break  forth 

in  a  new  Spring? 
Who  mocks  me  with  a  death-bringing  birth? 

AMERICA 

Europa,  Old  Wife,  why  do  you  lie  there  trembling  and 
whispering  ? 

EUROPA 

Thou  hast  wrought  something  upon  me: 

Thou  hast  pierced  me  with  thy  terrible  spear  of  gold  .  .  . 

0  thou,  the  trampler  on  all  old  love,  slayer  of  Gods,  young 

Midas  of  the  West, 

Thou  gross  machine,  thou  money-changer  in  my  temple, 
Thou  harsh  youth  using  me  as  a  brothel-woman  is  used  on 

a  summer's  night  .  .  . 
Thou,  reeking  with  thy  greed,  but  mouthing  thy  rhetoric  of 

Democracy, 
Thou   hast    begotten   upon   me   a   vile   thing   in   mine  old 

age  .  .  . 
My  people  are  bought  by  thee,  and  my  children  are  become 

as  thou  art  ... 
And  now  thou  smitest  me  down  with  unwelcome  progeny. 

AMERICA 

Old  Woman,  why  do  you  begin  to  cry  and  roll  around  in 

agony 
And  cover  your  continent  with  broken  cities  and  with  blood  ? 

EUROPA 

Hear  me,  Heavens,  I  chant  the  chant  of  death,  the  roll  of 
armies, 

1  burn  in  the  fires  of  the  Earth,  the  ancient  fires  that  go 

smoking 

[  9i  ] 


With  agony  blurring  the  bright  sun  —  O  Man,  the  sorrow 
ful! 

0  voices  of  a  great  lamentation ! 

AMERICA 

What  is  this  sorrow  of  great  peoples,  and  this  lamentation 

of  multitudes, 

Ships  go  down,  and  cities  topple,  and  the  world  crumbles! 
Are  you  not  dying,  Old  Woman? 
Are  these  not  death-throes? 

EUROPA 

1  am  dying,  America  ...  I  am  dying!     Save  me  and  help 

me! 

AMERICA 

Why  do  you  clutch  me,  Old  Woman,  why  do  you  drag  me 

into  your  withered  arms, 
Why  do  you  wail  in  my  ears  ? 

EUROPA 

The  doom  falls  and  now  death 

Drinks    down    greedily    the    glory    of    my    two    thousand 
years  .  .  . 

AMERICA 

She  lies  still  .  .  .  she  lies  spent  and  still  .  .  . 
But  what  is  this  beside  her? 

THE   VOICE   OF   ANTIQUITY 

Yea,  what  is  this  beside  her? 

AMERICA 

What  opens  in  my  heart? 

What  little  song  begins  to  sing  so  purely  in  my  heart? 

[    92    ] 


What  wonder  and  what  miracle  is  this? 
What  child  is  this,  so  poor  and  helpless,  lying  in  the  arms 
of  the  spent  mother? 

EUROPA 

Babe,  my  babe  .  .  . 

O  my  breasts  rise  to  meet  thy  tiny  lips, 

My  breasts  rise,  and  a  faint  new  life  runs  down  my  blood, 

And  I  am  glorified,  glorified  .  .  . 

Drink,  little  stranger,  drink  from  the  mother. 


[93] 


FOLK-SOUL 


I  heard  someone  singing  about  Russia 

A  freemen's  song, 

And    I    heard   the  old   song  of   the   boatmen   of  Mother 

Volga  .  .  . 
Dark  sad  songs  .  .  . 
A  folk-soul  changes  but  slowly  .  .  . 

I    thought   of    the   wind   of    freedom    that   blows   on    the 

steppes  .  .  . 

And  I  thought  of  you,  Gorky, 
The  dark  young  years, 
Your  strange  little  Grandmother  .  .  . 

Deeper  than  poverty  and  riches, 

Deeper  than  oppression  and  tyranny, 

Deeper  than  ignorance, 

Deep  as  life  is  the  folk-soul,  and  it  changes  but  slowly  .  .  . 


I  heard  someone  singing  of  America 
A  Cabaret  song, 

And  I  heard  the  old  song  of  Mother  dear,  come  bathe  my 
forehead  .  .  . 

[  94  ] 


Sweet  thin  songs  .  .  . 

A  herd-spirit  deepens  but  slowly  .  .  . 

I   thought  of   the   land  of  the   free  where   the  emigrants 

settle  .  .  . 

Are  they  free?     I  asked,  are  they  free? 
And  I  thought  of  the  public  schools, 
And  broadcast  bathtubs, 
And  movies  and  newspapers  .  .  . 

Czar-scourged  Russia:  free  America  .  .  . 
Gorky's  Grandmother: 
George  M.  Cohen  .  .  . 


Who  shall  refuse  to  be  of  the  party  of  bread  and  liberation? 

Work  for  all:  light  for  all:  power  for  all? 

Who  shall  set  himself  against  the  tides  whose  phantom  moon 

is  Freedom? 
And  who  shall  forget  old  Tolstoi's  wisdom:  that  freedom  is 

of  the  spirit  ? 


I  heard  someone  singing  about  Russia 

A  freeman's  song, 

And    I    heard    the   old   song   of   the   boatmen   of    Mother 

Volga  .  .  . 
Dark  sad  songs  .  .  . 
A  folk-soul  changes  but  slowly. 


[95  ] 


THE  FIRES  OF  PITTSBURGH 

FIRES  — 

Fires  out  of  the  dark  — 

(Coal-barges  swing  on  the  Ohio)1 
Fires,  fires  of  Steel  — 

(Ore  floats  the  ripple  of  the  slow  Monongahela) 
Fires,  fires  of  Pittsburgh  — 

Lo,  lightnings  lifting  her  sky  of  smoke,  and  dropping  it, 
Lo,  the  young  American  city, 
On  her  heights,  in  the  fork  of  her  rivers, 
And  ringed  with  mills 
Guarding  her  tracks  and  tonnage 
Laboring  day  and  night. 

She  is  the  womb  of  the  Modern, 

Strong  young  mother  of  cities  and  ships.  .  .  . 

She  weaves  the  world  with  rails, 

And  webs  the  Earth  with  wires.  .  .  « 

Pittsburgh  is  Labor, 

Pittsburgh  is  Wealth, 

Pittsburgh  is  Power. 

From  these  smokes,  a  nation, 

From  these  fires,  America. 

O  fires  of  Pittsburgh ! 

Is  it  only  the  Steel  that  shrieks  as  you  twist  and  shape  it? 

[  96 1 


Is  this  the  howling  of  your  hammers,  the  anguish  of  your 
cranes,  the  revolt  of  your  engines? 

Do  I  hear  only  this  hell's  music  of  mills? 

Or  is  this  the  slaves'  song  of  your  lonely  wrestlers  with  ele 
mental  flame  and  ore, — 

The  slaves'  song, 

The  slaves'  groaning  and  wailing  in  the  dark, 

The  song  of  mastered  men, 

The  sullen  satanic  music  of  lost  and  despairing  human 
ity? 

I  will  go  lightly 

By  the  lonely  shanties  clinging  to  the  barren  slopes.  .  .  . 
I  will  go  softly 
Where  no  birds  sing, 

Where  the  gas-lamps  burn  grey  in  the  flimsy  sodden  mill- 
town, 

And  from  the  lighted  kitchens 

The  tired  workmen  throng  the  streets,  tramping,  tramping, 
Tramping  over  the  railroad  bridge, 
Tramping  through  the  switch-yards, 
For  the  Giant  has  blown  his  whistle 
And  the  night-shift  is  on.  ... 

Madly  the  night  swirls 
Lunging  with  engines  — 

The  flames  burst  the  roofs  and  shower  golden  snow, 
The  shrill-whistling  yard-engines  bump  across  the  switches, 
Switchmen  swing  lanterns,  green,  green,  red, 
The  sudden  headlights  dazzle,  round  the  silhouettes  of  work 
men, 

This  mill  and  that  looms  roaring,  roaring, 
Bells  beat,  whistles  blow,  shouts  rise,  and  heaven 

[97  ] 


Rolls  with  unresting  smokes, 
Glares  with  livid  lightning.  .  .  . 

Speed! 

The  young  god  speed ! 

The  young  god  speed  is  at  the  wheel, 

Whipping  the  engines, 

Pacing  the  workers, 

The  mills  roar  their  terrible  triumph  over  time, 

The  great  machines  snatch  at  the  hands  of  men, 

And  drag  them  in,  and  drag  in  the  arms, 

And  drag  at  every  muscle  of  the  body.  .  .  . 

Speed!  speed! 

American  speed! 

Set  the  fires  roaring, 

Swing  the  blooms  in  faster, 

Pile  up  the  tonnage  for  a  record-breaker, 

Pile  up  the  tonnage.  .  .  .  Strain,  strain,  you  toilers! 

Give  us  every  ounce  of  your  tireless  energy.  .  .  . 

Work,  till  you  crack,  work  till  you  are  slag: 

Work,  till  you  age  with  fever  and  exhaustion, 

Work,  till  we  fling  you  out  upon  the  rusty  scrap-heap.  .  .  . 

Open  slides  the  floor-door:  the  soaking  pit  is  dazzling.  .  .  . 

Down  comes  the  crane-hand  and  dips  into  the  fire: 

It's  the  ten-ton  ingot  she  is  lifting  up, 

It's  the  ten-ton  ingot,  white-hot  and  sizzling.  .  .  . 

It's  a  lost  soul  shrieking  snatched  from  out  the  burning.  .  .  . 

Clank,  clank,  clatter,  the  bloom  runs  down  the  rollers, 
Crash !  it  hits  the  wringers ! 
Whong!  the  sparks  are  flying! 

[  98] 


« 


Klong-al,  klong-al,  it  howls  like  a  lioness, 
Giving  up  its  soul  as  it  flattens  to  a  sheet.  ,  •  • 

Noise,  soot,  chaos.  .  .  . 

I  wander,  finding  men, 

Half-naked  men  with  wet  shining  bodies, 

Men  with  forks,  and  men  at  the  levers, 

Men  on  cars,  and  men  behind  the  engines, 

Fire-glaring  men  with  shovels  at  the  furnaces.  .  , 

Men,  men.  .  .  . 

I  watch,  and  I  am  silent.  .  .  . 

(O  dance  of  death! 

Dance  of  the  fires  of  death! 

Fires,  fires  of  Pittsburgh!) 

There  are  hills,  beloved,  with  mountain-gardens,- 
There  we  grow  roses,  useless  beautiful  roses 
For  the  delight  of  our  souls.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  room,  beloved,  on  the  city-square, — 
There  we  make  songs,  useless  beautiful  songs 
As  gifts  to  each  other's  hearts. 

We  have  known  how  the  body,  like  a  bud, 
Opens  beyond  Earth,  and  beyond  riches, 
Into  vision,  song,  love.  .  .  . 

We  have  known  the  mystery  of  each  other, 
Clinging  in  the  mystery  of  the  Night, 
Wi'h  stars  and  long  silence.  .  .  . 

[  99  ] 


There  is  a  fire  beyond  fire.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  fire  in  love 
There  is  a  fire  in  song.  .  .  . 

O  Man,  thou  flame! 

Thou  who  hast  in  thee  this  vague  vision,  this  power  of 

desire, 

Hast  thou  traversed  a  planet  with  trade  and  speech, 
Steel  swimmers  of  the  sea,  steel  cities  capped  with  cloud, 
Steel  cannonades  of  destruction, 
Steel  strength  of  Civilization, 
And  yet,  art  thou  darkness? 

Psychic  Giant! 

Thou  apparition  appearing  on  a  planet  teeming  with  little 

animals, 

Emerging  strong  from  the  twilight  of  storm-lost  creatures, 
Thou  envisager  of  distances  and  ages, 
Thou  binder  of  elemental  powers, 
Thou  tameless  fighting  god  of  Earth! 

Art  thou  this,  builder  of  Pittsburgh? 

Why  then  this  sighing  in  the  abyss? 

Why  from  thy  grimy  lips  this  slaves'  song,  this  slaves'  song 

in  the  fires, 

This  slaves'  wailing  and  groaning, 
This  sullen  satanic  music  of  despair  and  death? 

Art  thou  caught  in  thine  own  creation? 

Giant,  art  thou  locked  in  the  arms  of  this  Giant  of  thine 

own  making, 
This  brainless  Giant? 
Are  the  two  of  you  eternally  wrestling, 


Thou  of  the  shanties  clinging  to  the  barren  hills, 
Thou  of  the  tawdry  mill-town 

Wrestling  with   Steel,   struggling  with   Tonnage,   fighting 
with  Time? 

There  is  no  glory  in  the  world  that  coops  thee  here, 

Giant  of  Labor, 

There  is  no  joy.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  delight  in  the  gaudy  Heaven  lit  by  the  fires  of 

this  Hell, 

No  delight  among  the  masters  ever  speeding, 
No  delight  for  the  pilers-up  of  Power, 
There  is  no  joy  in  America.  .  .  . 
There  can  come  no  song  for  fine  ears  out  of  the  sweating  of 

the  multitude, 
There  can  come  no  splendor  of  the  soul  out  of  the  grinding 

of  the  slaves.  .  .  . 
But  there  comes  madness, 
There  comes  the  rising  whirlwind  of  riches. 
There  comes  the  hurricane-fury  of  lust  to  be  great, 
There  comes  a  wind  smiting  nation  against  nation, 
There  comes  confusion  of  tongues,  and  storm, 
Storm  whirling  the  towers,  toppling  the  cities,  blasting  the 

countryside, 

Storm  shattering  Civilization  —  the  Abyss 
Opens,  a  world  goes  down. 

And  thou,  Labor, 

Art  sucked  into  the  cyclone  — 

It  is  thy  blood  that  must  redden  the  fields  of  France, 

It  is  thy  breast  and  thy  face  that  must  stop  the  shells.  .  .  . 

Fires, 

Fires  out  of  the  dark 

[    101] 


.   (_C*>al  ,ba-rges  swing  on  the  Ohio) 
Fires,  fires  of  Steel  — 

(Ore  floats  the  ripple  of  the  slow  Monongahela) 
Fires,  fires  of  Pittsburgh  — 
From  these  smokes,  a  nation, 
From  these  fires,  America.  .  .  . 

But  that  morning  shall  break 

When  the  Sleeper  in  thy  fires  awakens, 

But  that  morning  shall  break 

When  thy  giant  Slave  rises  and  deals  with  thee.  .  .  . 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  those  flies,  his  masters,  shall 

drop, 

With  a  stroke  of  his  terrible  fist  he  shall  clean  out  the  mills, 
He   shall  seize   the   machines,   bestriding  the   engines  that 

rode  him.  .  .  . 

When  that  morning  breaks 
The  Sun  of  Labor  in  splendor 
Shall  illume  a  new  world, 
When  that  morning  breaks 
This  Giant  shall  call  to  the  Giants 
And  the  Nations  be  one.  .  .  . 
When  that  morning  of  glory  breaks 
The  Earth's  hosts  arisen 
Shall  be  streaming  with  light.  .  .  . 
Song  shall  burst  from  their  lips, 
And  flame  out  of  darkness.  .  .  . 
Song  shall  leap  from  their  lips, 
And  the  glory 

Be  given  to  Man  for  his  marring,  his  making,  his  death  or 
his  life. 

[  102  ] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  UPRISING 

/  —  Joy 

Joy  wings  his  way, 

—  (O  bells  of  heaven!) 

Joy  wings  his  irresistible  way, 

—  (O  winds,  O  sun!) 

Joy  wings  his  irresistible,  his  radiant,  his  ineluctable  way, 

—  (Morning!  morning  of  the  winds, 
Morning  strong  with  song!) 

Joy  wings,  wings,  wings  his  way 

And  now  the  wild  great  song  of  dawn 

Mounts  heaven  on  beams  of  light 

Scattering  the  dew  in  the  path  of  the  veering  bee, 

And  from  the  house  the  girl  and  boy  bare-headed 

Come  fresh  from  sleep 

And  lift  young  voices  toward  blue  skies  .  .  . 

Lift  young  voices  toward  blue  skies 
Meeting  the  young  god,  Joy. 

Joy  is  the  carrier  of  news  .  .  . 
He  laughs  over  the  battlefields  .  .  . 
Joy  is  the  sun  .  .  . 
He  shines  on  the  democracies  .  .  . 
Joy  is  exultant  with  tidings  .  .  . 

t  103  ] 


He  flings  on  the  Earth  in  the  road  of  the  hosts  the  luminous 
flame  of  the  future  . 


0  the  Earth,  it  is  bled, 

It  is  black,  clawed  with  death, 

But  victory,  but  victory,  but  irrepressible  victory 

Shouts  from  the  lips  of  Joy 

Who  shall  raise  up  the  dead. 

1  will  make  a  prophecy 
To  your  swelling  heart, 
That  the  heavens  open 
Presently  with  Peace  .  .  . 

I  will  make  a  prophecy  of  glory 
To  your  dark-swelling  heart  ...  § 

The  peoples  shall  be  one, 
The  Earth  shall  be  our  home, 

The  children  shall  lead  us  forth  with  a  scattering  of  roses, 
And  the  heavens  in  all  their  splendor  of  stars  shall  sing: 
"  One  people,  one  planet." 


O  my  heart! 

How  wonderful  is  the  age  we  dwell  in  ... 

We  are  climbing  up  on  the  new  tableland  of  man, 

Beyond  cedars  of  sorrow,  beyond  hemlocks  of  lamentation, 

There  where  the  grass  blows  wild, 

There  where  the  oak  and  the  maple  sway  in  the  wind, 

There  where  the  festival  is  held,  and  the  sun  gleams  on  the 

steel  of  the  workshops  .  .  . 
Gleams  on  the  steel  and  on  the  miraculous  flesh  of  men's 

faces  .  .  . 

[  104  ] 


(Hear,  O  softly,  O  faintly,  sweetly, 

Hear  the  cooing  murmur  of  the  mothers, 

The  lisp  of  laughing  babes, 

The  bird-like  love-notes,  the  lark-like  mate-calls 

Of  passionate  girls  and  boys, 

And  hear,  hear, 

Voices  of  men  together  in  workshops  where  work  is  glory.) 

Truly  triumphant  from  the  massive  enginery  of  destruction 

and  battle 
Where  great  guns  leveled  Louvain  and  rifled  Europe  of 

grandeur, 
Truly  triumphant  the  saved  shall  stand  and  march  with  a 

blowing  of  the  trump 
And  march  with  a  throbbing  of  the  drum 
Heroic  and  renewed  to  the  lands  of  the  new  age  .  .  . 

They  shall  march !  — 

(O  Joy,  thou  news-bringer!) 
They  shall  march !  — 

(O  Joy,  thou  sun  in  the  windy  heavens!) 
They  shall  march !  — 

(O  Joy,  thou  art  approaching  beamed  with  the  glory  of 

the  free!) 

They  shall  march,  they  shall  sing,  they  shall  swing  with  ra 
diant  ranks, 
Down  the  fields,  down  the  streets,   down  the  continental 

roads, 
They  shall  march,   they  shall  ship,  they  shall  fly  on  the 

planes  of  rejoicing, 

They  shall  be  one  mass  of  triumph  in  the  peace  that  crown- 
eth  all. 

[  105] 


'//  —  Darkness 

Death  darkens,  darkens  .  .  . 

—  (O  cry  of  breakers!) 

Death  darkens,  darkens  on  the  deeps  .  .  • 

—  (O  rocks,  O  sea!) 

Death  darkens,   darkens  on  the  moving,  the  interminable 
deeps  .  .  . 

—  (Midnight!  midnight  of  no  stars! 
Midnight  bowed  with  cloud!) 

Death  darkens,  darkens,  darkens, 
And  the  wild  blown  dirges  of  the  sea 
Break  into  lamentation, 

Break  into  anguish  on  the  rocks,  on  the  sands,  on  the  dunes, 
Wail  along  the  dunes,  weep  along  the  dunes, 
And  the  sea  cries, 

And  the  wind  skims  the  sea-tides  with  an  empty  moaning, 
And  the  clouds  crowd  together  dropping  their  tears  upon 
the  war-bled  world  .  .  . 

O  the  black  midnight ! 
Winds  howl  and  sand  blows, 

The  broom  wails  and  snaps  and  the  breakers  burst  writh 
ing.  .  . 
O  the  blackness  of  this  midnight  .  .  . 

Must  I  walk  these  shores  lost  in  grief? 

Must  I  walk  these  stormy  shores  at  the  salt  fringes  of  the 

tragic  sea 

In  a  vision  of  the  human  Earth  I  tread, 
In  a  vision  of  an  Earth  of  men  and  women 
Stripped  and  maimed, 

[  106] 


Trapped  and  slain, — 

Must  I  walk  these  naked  shores,  dreadfully,  slowly,  stricken 
in  my  heart? 

Unbearable  sorrow! 

Fiendish  anguish! 

Among  the  old  that  line  the  streets,  among  the  faded  and 
the  war-worn, 

Radiant  miles  of  youth  glow  by,  laughing  with  the  bugles, 

Radiant  rivers  of  youth  flow  by, 

Flow  into  the  trenches  .  .  . 

I  see  the  Hell  they  have  entered  with  its  pitiless  flame- 
fledged  skies, 

With  its  mud  and  stenchent  carrion,  with  the  murderer  and 
the  murdered  .  .  . 

I  see  the  Hell  they  have  entered  and  the  radiance  gone 
out  .  .  . 

0  my  heart  .  .  . 

How  terrible  is  the  age  we  dwell  in  ... 

None  .  .  .  none  .  .  .  none 

Shall  assuage  great  grief  .  .  . 

None  .  .  .  none  .  .  .  none 

Shall  restore  the  lost  to  us.  ... 

Roll,  muffled  drums,  you  heart-beats  of  despair, 

Boom,  O  you  brass,  for  the  burial  of  our  boys. 

1  have  mounted  midnight 
To  gaze  in  the  abyss, 

In  the  midst  of  heaven 

Hangs  a  red,  red  heart  .  .  . 

I  have  mounted  mournful  midnight 

To  gaze  in  the  abyss, 

[  107] 


And  I  have  seen  that  red  heart 
Dripping  drops  of  blood  .  .  . 
That  heart  is  the  Earth, 
In  the  darkness  it  hangs  red, 

In  the  darkness  it  bleeds  red  with  human  grief  and  an 
guish  .  .  . 

But  is  not  the  Earth  as  a  husk  of  beauties  and  glories  and 

powers 

Which  stripped,  reveals  the  kernel,  the  naked  body  of  man? 
Is  not  man  her  consummate  miracle? 

Is  he  not  strong  with  engines  and  strong  with  soaring  song? 
Can  he  be  this  beast  of  the  jungle? 
Can  he  be  this  darkness-maker? 
Has  his  great  past  opened  only  in  this? 

Sea  of  the  interminable  tides, 

Sea,  of  dirges  and  of  moving  deeps,  and  of  darkened  song, 

I    will    turn    from   you,    I    will   call    the    beloved   of   my 

heart  .  .  . 

Turn  and  call  her,  that  in  her  face 
I  may  read  of  youth's  betrayal, 
And  the  treason  of  the  strong  .  .  . 

They  have  betrayed  us  ... 

(Silence,  you  false  seas!) 
They  have  betrayed  us  ... 

(Silence,  you  lying  dirge-singing  seas!) 
They  have  betrayed  us  ... 

(Silence,  you  seas  awash  with  ignoble  anguish!) 
They  have  betrayed  us,  they  have  sold  us,  they  have  carried 

off  our  youth 

To  the  slaughter,  to  the  murder,  to  the  deepest  pits  of  Hell, 

[  108] 


They   have   betrayed    us,    they   are   traitors,  we  shall  rise 

against  their  power, 
We  shall  shake  the  Earth  with  tumult  and  the  thunders  of 

Revolt 

III— The  Call 

Whither  goest  thou,  beautiful  and  beloved,  O  Earth, 
Whither  goest  thou? 

Dawn  is  not  yet: 

We  sit  in  a  cranny  of  the  eastward  rocks  of  the  mountain- 
top; 

Among  shapes  of  the  wind,  shadows  of  the  stars,  and  the 
Earth  darker  than  the  skies. 

O  my  beloved, 

Your  hands  are  warm  in  my  own,  your  hair  blows  against 

my  cheek: 
You  are  glimmering  beside  me,  your  eyes  bright  with  the 

wild  animal: 
We  are  of  the  darkness  of  Earth  dipped  in  the  eddying 

gleam  of  the  heavens: 
We  taste  the  freshness  of  wind-blown  pines. 

Vastness  ...  ten  stars  are  gone  .  .  . 
Grayness  ...  the  Earth  sighs  .  .  . 
Twilight  ...  the  East  twinkles  .  .  . 

O  rise,  my  beloved,  rise,  for  the  runners  of  the  sun 

Appear  with  their  bugles  upon  the  mountains  and  blow  long 

blasts  of  light 

Swelling  and  shattering  Night  .  .  . 

[  109  ] 


Rise,  we  must  meet  the  miracle  .  .  .  Dawn's  joy  swells: 
Stirring,  Earth  tosses  her  covers  of  the  dark  aside, 
Laughing,    leaps    from    her    bed:    naked,    bathes    in    the 

dew  .  .  . 
Look,  where  the  peeping  chimney  smokes,  look,  the  gray 

lake, 
Listen  .  .  .  the  waking! 

Birds  are  fluttering,  brooks  are  babbling,  leaves  are  danc 
ing,  woodfolk  scurry  .  .  . 
The  color  of  the  dawn 
Scattered,  drowns  in  blue  .  .  . 

We  are  blown  on  the  topmost  rock, 

We  cannot  be  still  .  .  . 

Your  hair,  my  beloved,  is  a  golden  gale, 

Yours  lips  are  cold  .  .  . 

Look  to  the  East,  behold  ... 

Look  —  gold  .  .  . 

Pure  gold,  flame  gold,  growing,  emboldening  gold! 

Mark! 

The  sons  of  light  — 

The  sons  of  light  charge  heaven  on  golden  gallopers, 

And  struck  out  of  fire,  with  song, 

The  morning  star  is  born  — 

The  morning  star  is  born  —  the  sun,  the  sun  —  Day! 

(A  shadow  crosses  the  sun  .  .  . 
The  Earth  grows  gray  below  us  .  .  ... 
We  are  hushed  of  a  sudden,  and  chilled  .  .  . 
Doubt  .  .  .  dread.) 

Whither  goest  thou,  darkened  and  solemn,  O  Earth, 
Whither  goest  thou? 

[  no] 


Is  there  then,  beloved,  no  forgetting  of  sorrow? 
Must  there  be  pausing  for  lamentation? 
Is  there  an  hour  for  cedars? 

Shall  the  drums  roll  for  the  lost  and  the  bugles  blow  for 
the  dead? 

I  heard  a  voice  say:  None, 

None  shall  heal  empty  arms. 

I  heard  a  voice  say:  None, 

None  shall  assuage  great  grief  .  .  . 

For  he  is  dead,  whose  young  lips 

She  kissed  in  the  intervals  of  song  .  .  . 

—  In  the  intervals  of  song  .  .  . 

Death  darkens,  darkens, 

(O  cry  of  breakers!) 
Death  darkens,  darkens  on  the  deeps, 

(O  rocks,  O  sea!) 

Death  steals  into  the  ecstasy  of  life, 

Steals  in,  snatches  the  loved  ones,  and  leaves  bereaved 
hearts  .  .  . 

Beloved,  beloved, 

How  can  we  abide  on  the  mountain  of  our  joy 

Where  even  touched  with  sunrise  we  quiver  through  in 
visible  nerves  to  the  ends  of  Earth, 

And  the  agony  of  man  darkens  our  dawn  .  .  . 

We  must  descend  into  the  pit  of  a  thousand  million  out 
stretched,  imploring  hands, 

The  pit  of  bloody  faces,  and  wailing  lips  .  .  . 

Down  to  the  sorrow  of  Earth, 

The  anguish  of  Man. 


For  Earth,  like  a  staring  maniac,  bearing  a  firebrand, 

Goes  shrieking  down  the  skies, 

Shrieking  "  Famine,"  shrieking  "  Pestilence,"  shrieking 
"  War  "... 

That  orb  of  destruction  burns  balefully  in  the  august  mag 
nificence  of  night  .  .  . 

The  mad  world  runs  amuck  .  .  . 

Is  Man  ending  himself  ? 

Is  the  miracle  of  that  mind  and  passion  which  dreamed  and 
built  Asia  and  Europe 

Stopped  in  suicidal  madness? 

Beloved,  were  we  born  to  see  this,  and  to  live  this  ? 

Are  we  among  the  doomed  ? 


(Yet  —  what  song  is  in  my  heart? 

O  has  the  mother  heard  the  stir  of  life  in  her  side? 

Is  there  the  faint,  the  tremulous  stir  of  the  unborn?) 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates, 
And  be  ye  uplift,  you  everlasting  doors  .  .  . 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  upon  us  ... 
We  shall  not  bend  before  the  storm:  we  shall  not  bow  be 
fore  great  death : 

We  put  the  darkness  from  us  with  a  loud  shout: 
We  put  the  temptation  of  despair  away  with  resolution: 
We  arise :  we  arise  clothed  in  courage : 
We  arise:  we  are  that  which  has  refused  darkness:  we  are 

MAN   .   .    . 

MAN,  the  fire-bringer, 
MAN,  the  Creator. 


I   "2  ] 


We  call  mountain  to  mountain  .  .  . 
We  raise  a  torch  of  Revolution  .  .  . 
We  bring  forth  the  peoples  out  of  their  darkness 
And  the  nations  out  of  their  wrath  .  .  . 
We  behold  the  Earth  in  parturition  .  .  . 
We  see  the  Mother  in  birth-throes  .  .  . 
We  greet  the  child  with  calls  of  welcome  and  the  sound  of 
cities  of  joy  .  .  . 

O,  blow  you  bugles,  with  triumph, 

O,  shout,  you  peoples,  with  victory  .  .  . 

Hurl  down  the  mighty  from  their  seats, 

And  raise  yourselves  to  freedom  .  .  . 

Raise  up  yourselves,  ye  slaves  and  chained  ones, 

Raise  up  yourselves,  ye  toiling  peoples  .  .  . 

Be  upraised,  ye  sorrowers  and  ye  spent  ones, 

Get  up  on  the  peaks  of  the  morning  and  proclaim  the  tri 
umph  of  Man, 

The  victory  of  Man, 

Get  up  on  the  peaks  of  the  morning  and  greet  the  child,  the 
New  Age, 

On  tablelands  of  democracy, 

On  heights  of  man,  the  creator, 

Get  ye  up,  get  ye  up,  get  ye  up,  ye  triumphing  peoples  .  .  . 

New  Man  is  born  from  the  Old:  Joy  shall  leap  laughing 
from  Sorrow. 


["3] 


THE  IRONIC  SPIRIT 

We  have  drunk  deep  — 

This  generation  — 

We  have  drunk  deep  of  evil  .  .  . 

The  ironic  spirit 

Was  our  wet-nurse, 

And  we  milked  her  in  the  soft  latitudes  of  the  equator  of 

dreams  .  .  . 
In  zones  of  comfort 
We  sipped  the  milk  of  peace; 
Not  without  a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouth, 
The  taste  of  trade  and  of  toil, 
But  the  sweet  savor  of  sinlessness, 
Of  the  excellence  of  human  nature, 
For  when  the  gods  died 
The  legion  of  devils  withered, 
And  when  the  blaze  of  the  seraphs  was  put  out 
Hell's  darkness  also  vanished  .  .  . 

So  we  grew  up 

In  the  cotton  of  an  all-human  world, 

Sheltered  in  the  sane  cubicle  of  intelligence: 

There  were  no  storms,  but  those  of  the  winds  and  the  clouds, 

No  passions  among  the  polite, 

No  evils  chat  were  not  error  .  .  . 

[ 


We  were  a  good  race,  in  spite  of  the  quagmire  of  poverty, 
And  when  at  last  that  should  be  abolished 
Then    in    goodness,    the    reign    of    kindliness   should    tri 
umph  .  .  . 

We  pitied  the  past 

Lost  as  it  was  in  the  magic  mists  of  superstition, 

The  demon  Past  drinking  hot  blood  from  a  skull, 

The  Past  of  pestilence  and  battle, 

The  tragic  ignorant  Past  .  .  . 

We  seemed  free 

Because  we  thought  freely, 

And  because  we  could  telegraph  instead  of  travel, 

And  of  all  the  generations  of  men 

We  were  the  least  tragic  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  the  ironic  spirit 

Had  made  our  content  complete 

To  deepen  the  horror  of  what  lay  in  wait  for  us  ... 

The  generation  that  seemed  born  to  suffer  least 

Has  suffered  as  no  generation  before  it, 

And  we  that  were  so  good 

Are  black  with  evil  beyond  our  ancestors  .  .  . 

Our  kindliness  has  shaped  a  fiend's  devastation  of  hate, 

And    our    milk    of    humanity    has     turned    to    vapors    of 

venom  .  .  . 

Out  of  our  supersanity  has  come  a  universal  madness, 
And  from  our  antiseptic  safeties  a  devil's  disregard  for  pain 

and  death  .  .  . 

On  the  corpse  of  our  Brotherhood  of  Man 
We  have  erected  a  monument  of  slaughter, 

[  us  ] 


And  with  the  science  that  was  to  make  us  intelligent 
We  have  taught  cruelty  new  cunning  .  .  . 

The  ironic  spirit  smiles  with  a  bitter  satisfaction 
As  it  gives  us  to  drink  deep, 
Deep  of  all  evil. 


[  116] 


DEBS 

Four  great  lovers  rose  in  America  .  .  . 

One  was  hung: 

One  was  shot: 

One  lived  in  solitude : 

And  one  was  jailed  .  .  . 

The  prairies,  the  valleys  and  the  mountains  of  the  ages  are 

remembered  because  of  great  lovers  who  were  there  .  .  . 
Drums  and  flags  lay  the  caesars  to  rest, 
But  the  muffled  drums   roll  by,   dying,   and  we  let  them 

die  ... 

When  the  great  lover  dies,  in  silence, 
His  grave  becomes  the  fragrant  mouth  of  an  ever-swelling 

song: 

These  are  the  songs  by  which  we  live, 
These  are  the  suns  that  shine  on  us,  stars  and  moons  that 

sprinkle  our  nights, 
Winds  of  reviving  May,  rains  of  dry  summer  .  .  . 

Gene  Debs,  this  fragment  song  for  you, 

Living  great  lover  through  whom  America  lives. 


[  "7] 


MEMORIES  OF  WHITMAN  AND  LINCOLN 

"  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd  " 

— w.  w. 

Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 

And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Spring  hangs  in  the  dew  of  the  dooryards 

These  memories  —  these  memories  — 

They  hang  in  the  dew  for  the  bard  who  fetched 

A  sp>rig  of  them  once  for  his  brother 

When  he  lay  cold  and  dead.  .  .  . 

And  forever  now  when  America  leans  in  the  dooryard 

And  over  the  hills  Spring  dances, 

Smell  of  lilacs  and  sight  of  lilacs  shall  bring  to  her  heart 

these  brothers.  .  .  . 
Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Who  are  the  shadow-forms  crowding  the  night? 

What  shadows  of  men? 

The  stilled  star-night  is  high  with  these  brooding  spirits  — 

Their  shoulders  rise  on  the  Earth-rim,  and  they  are  great 
presences  in  heaven  — 

They  move  through  the  stars  like  outlined  winds  in  young- 
leaved  maples. 

[  118  ] 


Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Deeply  the  nation  throbs  with  a  world's  anguish  — 

But  it  sleeps,  and  I  on  the  housetops 

Commune  with  souls  long  dead  who  guard  our  land  at  mid 
night, 

A  strength  in  each  hushed  heart  — 

I  seem  to  hear  the  Atlantic  moaning  on  our  shores  with  the 
plaint  of  the  dying 

And  rolling  on  our  shores  with  the  rumble  of  battle.  .  .  . 

I  seem  to  see  my  country  growing  golden  toward  California, 

And,  as  fields  of  daisies,  a  people,  with  slumbering  upturned 
faces 

Leaned  over  by  Two  Brothers, 

And  the  greatness  that  is  gone. 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Spring  runs  over  the  land, 

A  young  girl,  light-footed,  eager.  .  .  . 

For  I  hear  a  song  that  is  faint  and  sweet  with  first  love, 

Out  of  the  West,  fresh  with  the  grass  and  the  timber, 

But  dreamily  soothing  the  sleepers.  .  .  . 

I  listen:  I  drink  it  deep 

Softly  the  Spring  sings. 
Softly  and  clearly: 

"I  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved, 
Lilacs  for  the  lost,  the  dead. 

And,  see,  for  the  living,  I  bring  sweet  strawberry  blos 
soms, 

[  119  ] 


And  I   bring   buttercups,  and  I   bring   to    the  woods 

anemones  and  blue  bells  .  .  . 
I  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved, 
And  when  my  fluttering  garment  drifts  through  dusty 

cities, 

And  blows  on  hills,  and  brushes  the  inland  sea. 
Over  you,  sleepers,  over  you,  tired  sleepers, 
A  fragrant  memory  falls  .  .  . 
/  open  love  in  the  shut  heart, 
I  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved'9 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Was  that  the  Spring  that  sang,  opening  locked  hearts, 

And  is  remembrance  mine? 

For  I  know  these  two  great  shadows  in  the  spacious  night, 

Shadows  folding  America  close  between  them, 

Close  to  the  heart.  .  .  . 

And  I  know  how  my  own  lost  youth  grew  up  blessedly  in 

their  spirit, 

And  how  the  morning  song  of  the  mighty  native  bard 
Sent  me  out  from  my  dreams  to  the  living  America, 
To  the  chanting  seas,  to  the  piney  hills,  down  the  railroad 

vistas, 
Out  into  the  streets  of  Manhattan  when  the  whistles  blew 

at  seven, 
Down  to  the  mills  of   Pittsburgh  and  the  rude  faces  of 

labor  .  .  . 

And  I  know  how  the  grave  great  music  of  that  other, 
Music  in  which  lost  armies  sang  requiems, 
And  the  vision  of  that  gaunt,  that  great  and  solemn  figure, 
And  the  graven  face,  the  deep  eyes,  the  mouth, 

[    120] 


O  human-hearted  brother, 
Dedicated  anew  my  undevoted  heart 
To  America,  my  land. 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Now  in  this  hour  I  was  suppliant  to  these  two  brothers, 

And  I  said:  Your  land  has  need: 

Half-awakened     and     blindly     we     grope     in     the     great 

world.  .  .  . 
What  strength  may  we  take  from  our  Past,  what  promise 

hold  for  our  Future? 

And  the  one  brother  leaned  and  whispered : 

"  I  put  my  strength  in  a  book, 

And  in  that  book  my  love.  .  .  . 

This,  with  my  love,  I  give  to  America  ..." 

And  the  other  brother  leaned  and  murmured: 

"  I  put  my  strength  in  a  life, 

And  in  that  life  my  love, 

This,  with  my  love,  I  give  to  America." 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Then    my    heart    sang   out:  This    strength    shall    be    our 

strength : 
Yea,  when  the  great  hour  comes,  and  the  sleepers  wake  and 

are  hurled  back, 

And  creep  down  into  themselves 
There  they  shall  find  Walt  Whitman 
And  there,  Abraham  Lincoln. 


O  Spring,  go  over  this  land  with  much  singing 

And  open  the  lilacs  everywhere, 

Open  them  out  with  the  old-time  fragrance 

Making  a  people  remember  that  something  has  been  for 
gotten, 

Something  is  hidden  deep  —  strange  memories  —  strange 
memories  — 

Of  him  that  brought  a  sprig  of  the  purple  cluster 

To  him  that  was  mourned  of  all  ... 

And  so  they  are  linked  together 

While  yet  America  lives  .  .  . 

While  yet  America  lives,  my  heart, 
Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 


[   122  3 


MY  LAND 

Not  for  long  can  I  be  angry  with  the  most  beautiful  — 

I  look  out  of  my  vengefulness,  and  see  her  so  young,  so  vastly 

young, 

Wandering  her  fields  beside  Huron, 
Or  peering  over  Mt.  Rainier. 

Is  she  in  daisies  up  to  her  knees  ? 

Do  I  see  that  fresh  white  smile  of  hers  in  the  morning- 
shadowed  city? 

Is  this  she  clinging  to  the  headlight  of  the  locomotive  that 
roars  between  the  pine-lone  mountains? 

Are  her  ankles  in  the  wash  of  sea-weed  beside  the  sea-bat 
tered  rocks? 

Ah !  never  the  curve  of  a  hill  but  she  has  just  gone  beyond 

it, 
And  the  prairies  are  as  sweet  with  her  as  with  clover  and 

sage.  .  .  . 

Her  young  breasts  are  soft  against  willow-leaves, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  than  birds  in  the  vagueness  of  the 

forest. 

Whether  it  is  a  dream  that  I  have  honey-gathered  from  the 

years  of  my  days, 
Whether  it  is  so,  and  no  dream, 
I  cannot  help  the  love  that  goes  out  of  me  to  these  plains 

and  hills, 

These  coasts,  these  cities,  and  these  seas. 

[  123  ] 


NIGHT 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Egmont  Arens 


NIGHT 

A  Priest,  A  Poet,  A  Scientist. 
Hilltop,  in  October;  the  stars  shining. 

[The  Priest  kneels;  the  Scientist  looks  at  the  heavens 

through  a   telescope;  the  Poet  writes  in  a  little 

note-book.] 

THE  PRIEST 

When  I  consider  Thy  heavens,  the  work  of  Thy  fingers,  the 

moon  and  the  stars,  which  Thou  hast  ordained; 
What  is  man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him, 
And  the  son  of  man,  that  Thou  visitest  him  ? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Algol  which  is  dim,  becomes  again  a  star  of  the  second  mag 
nitude. 

THE   POET 

My  beloved  is  far  from  this  hilltop,  where  the  firs  breathe 
heavily,  and  the  needles  fall; 

But  from  the  middle  of  the  sea 

She,  too,  gazes  on  the  lustrous  stars  of  calm  October,  and  in 
her  heart 

She  stands  with  me  beneath  these  heavens  —  daintily  blows 

Breath  of  the  sighing  pines,  and  from  the  loaded  and  bowed- 
down  orchards  and  from  the  fields 

With  smokes  of  the  valley,  peace  steps  up  on  this  hill. 

[    127   ] 


THE  PRIEST 

Thou  art  the  Shepherd  that  strides  down  the  Milky  Way; 
Thou  art  the  Lord,  our  God:  glorified  be  Thy  name  and 

Thy  works. 
I  see  Thee  with  Thy  staff  driving  the  star-sheep  to  the  fold 

of  dawn. 

THE  SCIENTIST 

The  Spiral  Nebula  in  Ursa  Major,  that  forever  turns 
Slowly  like  a  flaming  pin-wheel  .  .  .  thus  are  worlds  born; 
Thus  was  the  sun  and  all  the  planets  a  handful  of  million 
years  ago. 

THE   POET 

She  is  far  from  me  ...  but  in  the  cradle  of  the  sea 
Sleepless  she  rocks,  calling  her  beloved :  he  heeds  her  call : 
On  this  hilltop  he  picks  the  North  Star  for  his  beacon  .  .  . 
For  by  that  star  the  sailors  steer,  and  beneath  that  star 
She  and  I  are  one  in  the  gaze  of  the  heavens. 

THE   PRIEST 

[Slowly  rising  and  turning  to  the  others.'] 
Let  us  glorify  the  Creator  of  this  magnificence  of  infinite 

Night, 
His  footstool  is  the  Earth,  and  we  are  but  the  sheep  of  this 

Shepherd. 

THE  SCIENTIST 

Thus  shall  we  only  glorify  ourselves, 

That  of  this  energy  that  rolls  and  drives  in  suns  and  planets 
Are  but  the  split-off  forces  with  cunning  brains, 
And  questioning  consciousness  .  .  .  Pray  if  you  must  — 
Only  your  own  ears  hear  you,  and  only  the  heart  in  your 
breast 

[  128] 


Responds  to  the  grandiose  emotion  .  .  .  See  yonder  star? 

That  is  the  great  Aldebaron,  great  in  the  night, 

Needing  a  whole  sky,  as  a  vat  and  a  reservoir,  which  he  fills 

with  his  flame  .  .  . 

But  no  astronomer  with  his  eye  to  his  lenses 
Has  seen  ears  on  the  monster. 

THE   PRIEST 

Thou  that  hast  never  seen  an  atom,  nor  the  ether  thou  pratest 

of, 

Thou  that  hast  never  seen  the  consciousness  of  man, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  invisible  arms  about  this  sky, 
And  the  Father  that  leans  above  us  ? 

THE   POET 

We  need  know  nothing  of  any  Father 

When  the  grasses  themselves,  withering  in  October,  stand  up 
and  sing  their  own  dirges  in  the  great  west  wind, 

And  every  pine  is  like  a  winter  lodging  house  where  the  nee 
dles  may  remember  the  greenness  of  the  world, 

And  the  great  shadow  is  jagged  at  its  top  with  stars, 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  as  a  wanderer  looking  for  the  light 
in  a  window, 

And  the  kiss  and  warm  joy  of  his  beloved. 

THE   PRIEST 

Man  of  Song  and  Man  of  Science, 

Truly  you  are  as  people  on  the  outside  of  a  house, 

And  one  of  you  only  sees  that  it  is  made  of  stone,  and  its 

windows  of  glass,  and  that  fire  burns  in  the  hearth, 
And  the  other  of  you  sees  that  the  house  is  beautiful  and 

very  human, 

But  I  have  gone  inside  the  house, 

[  129  ] 


And  I  live  with  the  host  in  that  house 

And  have  broken  bread  with  him,  and  drunk  his  wine, 

And  seen  the  transfiguration  that  love  and  awe  make  in  the 

brain  .  .  . 
For  that  house  is  the  world,  and  the  Lord  is  my  host  and  my 

father: 
It  is  my  father's  house. 

THE   SCIENTIST 

He  that  has  gone  mad  and  insane  may  call  himself  a  king, 

And  behold  himself  in  a  king's  palace,  with  feasting,  and 
dancing  women,  and  with  captains, 

And  none  can  convince  him  that  he  is  mad, 

Slave  of  hallucination  .  .  . 

We  that  weigh  the  atom  and  weigh  a  world  in  the  night, 
.  and  we 

Who  probe  down  into  the  brain,  and  see  how  desire  discolors 
reality, 

And  we  that  see  how  chemical  energy  changes  and  trans 
forms  the  molecule, 

So  that  one  thing  and  another  changes  and  so  man  arises  — 

With  neither  microscope,  nor  telescope,  nor  spectroscope,  nor 
finest  violet  ray 

Have  we  found  any  Father  lurking  in  the  intricate  unrea 
sonable  drive  of  things 

And  the  strange  chances  of  nature. 

THE   POET 

O  Priest,  is  it  not  enough  that  the  world  and  a  Woman 

are  very  beautiful, 
And  that  the  works  and  tragic  lives  of  men  are  terribly 

glorious  ? 

[  130] 


There  is  a  dance  of  miracles,  of  miracles  holding  hands  in 
a  chain  around  the  Earth  and  out  through  space  to  the 
moon,  and  to  the  stars,  and  beyond  the  stars, 

And  to  behold  this  dance  is  enough; 

So  much  laughter,  and  secret  looking,  and  glimpses  of  won 
der,  and  dreams  of  terror  .  .  . 

It  is  enough !  it  is  enough ! 

THE   PRIEST 

Enough  ?     I  see  what  is  enough ! 

Machinery  is  enough  for  a  Scientist, 

And  Beauty  is  enough  for  a  Poet; 

But  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  and  in  the  thirsty 

hearts  of  little  children 

There  is  a  hunger,  and  there  is  an  unappeasable  longing, 
For  a  Father  and  for  the  love  of  a  Father  .  .  . 
For  the  root  of  a  soul  is  mystery, 
And  the  Night  is  mystery, 

And  in  that  mystery  men  would  open  inward  into  Eternity, 
And  know  love,  the  Lord. 
Blessed  be  his  works,  and  his  angels,  and  his  sons  crowned 

with  his  glory! 

[A  pause.     The  Woman  with  a  burden  in  her  arms 
comes  in  slowly.] 

THE   WOMAN 

Who  has  the  secret  of  life  among  you? 

THE   PRIEST 

I,  woman,  have  that  secret: 

I  have  learned  it  from  the  book  of  the  revelations  of  God, 

And  I  have  learned  it  from  life,  bitterly, 

And  from  my  heart,  holily. 


THE  SCIENTIST 

Be  not  deceived,  woman: 

There  is  only  one  book  of  reality  —  the  book  of  Nature. 

THE  WOMAN 

Who  has  read  in  that  book  ? 

THE  SCIENTIST 

I  have  read  a  little: 
No  man  has  read  much. 

THE  POET 

They  lead  you  nowhere,  woman; 

You  are  the  secret  of  life,  and  your  glory  is  in  seeking  the 

secret, 
But  finding  it  never. 

THE  WOMAN 

I  have  climbed  this  hill  and  found  three  watchers  of  the 

night  — 

Three  star-gazers  perched  above  the  placid  October  harvests 
Where  they  lie  golden  and  crimson  along  the  valley,  and 

high  on  the  slopes 
The  scarlet  maples  flame  — 
You  are  a  priest :  and  you  speak  of  God. 
I  am  nothing  but  need :  for  I  carry  a  burden  that  is  heavier 

than  the  Earth,  and  is  heavier 
Than  the  flesh  of  woman  can  bear:  I  break 
Down  under  it :  and  a  hard  hate 
Against  my  birth  is  steel  in  my  heart  —  I  curse 
God,  if  there  be  a  God  — 
Love,  if  there  ever  was  love  — 
Life,  that  is  empty  ravings, 
And  the  hour  when  I  was  born. 

c  132] 


THE   PRIEST 

Peace!  Peace!  Thou  standest  in  the  presence  of  the  Night 
Shadowy  with  grace  and  benediction  —  the  mercy 
Of  the  Lord  falls  like  the  dew  on  the  soft  brow  of  thy  af 
fliction  ! 

THE   POET 

[Softly} 

She  is  very  beautiful  and  dark  with  her  stern  cursing, 
Standing  there  like  an  enemy  of  great  Jehovah, 
A  demon-woman  satanic  —  she  is  very  beautiful, 
With  her  arms  full  of  her  burden,  and  the  stars 
Seeming  to  retreat  before  her. 

THE   SCIENTIST 

What  burden  is  that  you  carry? 

THE   WOMAN 

That  which  is  worth  nothing, 

And  worth  more  than  these  stars  you  gaze  at. 

THE   PRIEST 

Put  thy  burden  upon  the  Lord,  and  thy  trust  in  His  loving 
kindness. 

THE  WOMAN 

I  will  not  part  with  my  burden,  though  it  is  worth  noth 
ing  .  .  . 

For  what  are  a  few  pounds  of  dead  flesh  worth  when  the 
life  has  left  it? 

THE   PRIEST 

Then  you  carry  the  dead  at  your  breast  ? 

[  133  ] 


THE  WOMAN 

I  carry  the  dead  .  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 

Flesh  of  your  flesh  and  bone  of  your  bone  .  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

My  breasts  are  still  heavy  with  unsucked  milk  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

Your  child  has  died  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

My  baby  is  dead  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

The  Lord  giveth,  the  Lord  taketh  away; 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

THE   WOMAN 

Nine  long  months 

I  ripr  led  with  the  human  seed,  and  like  a  goodly  tree  that 
is  green 

Stooped  with  sheltering  boughs  above  the  swelling  fruit  .  .  . 

Song  rang  sweetly  in  my  blood  .  .  . 

I  tasted  the  silent  life  as  a  spring  hillside  where  the  furrows 
are  run 

So  holds  its  bated  breath  against  the  pressing  of  the  grass- 
blades 

That  birds  coming  that  way  catch  the  held-down  glory  under 
the  furrows 

And  scatter  ecstatic  golden  notes  in  the  morning  light  .  .  . 

[  134] 


Until  the  trumpets  blasted,  as  if  the  opening  heavens  of  a 

sunrise 
Were    battalions    of    bright    trumpeters    blowing   news   of 

dawn  .  .  . 

Sank  I  then  into  darkness, 
Sank  I  then  into  terror, 

Till  I  was  healed  of  pain  by  the  new-born,  my  child  .  .  . 
And  now,  behold  in  my  arms 
The  life  of  my  life : 
All  that  I  was  went  out  in  him :  my  life  was  now  outside  me. 

THE   PRIEST 

Unto  thee  a  son  was  born ! 

THE   WOMAN 

I  ran  to  tend  him  with  glad  feet,  and  with  laughter  .  .  . 
For  my  life  was  now  outside  of  me, 
And  I  was  seeking  my  life. 

THE   PRIEST 

You  praised  the  Lord? 

THE  WOMAN 

I  loved  my  child  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

And  God  forgotten? 

THE   WOMAN 

That  child  was  holy  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

He  was  but  flesh  .  .  . 

[  135  ] 


THE  WOMAN 

Just  so  was  Christ  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

A  Son  of  God  .  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

My  child  was  such  .  .  . 

THE   PRIEST 

So  in  the  corrupt  new  generations  of  men 

They  forget  God,  and  love  but  the  flesh, 

And  the  corruptible  flesh  decays  after  its  kind 

And  in  their  bereavement  they  have  nothing  .  .  .  then  in 

their  sorrow 
They  curse  the  true  and  the  good. 

THE   WOMAN 

The  flesh,  you  say?     Here  is  the  flesh: 

But  was  it  the  flesh  when  his  blue  eyes  opened  and  gazed 

with  great  hunger, 
Was  it  the  flesh  that  wailed,  the  flesh  that  warmed  against 

my  naked  breasts,  the  flesh 
That  went  a  secret  way,  and  I  after,  I  after,  seeking  through 

embraces 

To  catch  my  son  back,  hold  him.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  he  was  gone, 
He  was  gone,  leaving  this.     Priest,  is  this  all  you  have  for 

the  bereaved? 

THE   PRIEST 

That  which  is  gone  is  now  with  God. 

THE   WOMAN 

/  was  his  God,  for  to  me  the  beautiful  bright  life  raised  its 
hands, 

[  136] 


Suppliant,  full  of  faith  .  .  . 
He  wailed  for  enfolding  love :  I  gave  it 
For  daily  bread:  I  gave  it 
For  healing  and  shelter:  I  gave  it. 
Out  of  me  he  came,  but  away  from  me  he  has  gone, 
And  if  he  has  found  out  some  other  mother,  I  curse  her  in 
my  jealousy! 

THE   PRIEST 

So  you  blaspheme  the  holiness  of  the  Omnipotent ! 

THE   WOMAN 

So  I  curse  the  thief  who  stole  my  treasure  away. 

THE   PRIEST 

Alas!  Who  may  speak  to  a  sacrilegious  generation? 

THE   WOMAN 

Speak  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  in  a  few  words 
What  is  the  secret  of  life? 

THE    PRIEST 

Life  is  a  mysterious  preparation  for  immortality  .  .  . 

We  are  sons  and  daughters  of  God,  who  shall  later  be  angels, 

and  in  heaven 
Know  bliss  beyond  all  dream. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Uncovering  her  child's  face.] 
My  son  .  .  . 
You  and  I  lately  pulsed  with  one  pulse,  and  sang  together 

one  song: 

For  you  the  flaming  pain,  for  you  the  terror  of  birth  .  .  . 

[  137  ] 


And  this  priest's  God  let  you  suffer,  in  a  glorious  prepara 
tion, 

And  let  you  die  ... 
[Kisses  him.'] 

Cold!  Cold!     My    heart    tightens    hard,    my    blood     is 
chilled  .  .  . 
[In  a  loud  cry.~\ 

Hellish  heaven!     Devilish  God! 

[Silence.     The  Poet  advances  and  covers  the  face.} 

THE    POET 

You  are  very  wonderful  and  very  noble  in  your  satanic 

anger, 
Your  curses  are  cleansing,  for  it  is  a  mighty  thing  for  man 

to  confront  creation 

Greater  even  than  this  vast  Night,  to  stand  in  his  transiency 
And  his  pitiful  helplessness,  and  in  the  grasp  of  his  doom, 

and  against  death, 

Darkness,  and  mysterious  powers,  alone  of  all  life 
Godlike,  downing  the  universe  with  defiance!     O  godlike 
Are  you ;  and  you  are  God ! 

THE   WOMAN 

[Gazing  at  him.} 
Who  are  you,  with  these  words? 

THE    POET 

Seer  and  singer,  one  who  glories  in  life,  and  through  vision 
Creates  his  own  worlds. 

THE   WOMAN 

Has  your  mother  ever  wept  for  you? 


THE   POET 

All  mothers  weep  .  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

Have  you  ever  had  a  child  ? 

THE   POET 

No  child  of  my  own :  but  I  know  the  love  of  children. 

THE  WOMAN 

Can  I  trust  you  with  a  great  trust? 

THE   POET 

I  think  of  you  as  a  holy  thing. 

THE   WOMAN 

Then  —  take  this  a  moment, 

And  feel  how  light  a  heavy  burden  may  be. 

[She  carefully  places  the  child  in  his  arms.] 

THE   POET 

How  strangely  light ! 

THE   WOMAN 

You  tremble.     Why? 

THE   POET 

There  is  something  so  real  in  the  stiff  posture  of  these  tiny 

legs, 

These  crooked  arms,  this  little  body, 
This  hanging  head  .  .  . 

c  139] 


THE  WOMAK 

Can  you  see  him? 

THE  POET 

[Looking  close. ,] 
O  tiniest  budding  mouth, 
O  dark  deep  fringes  of  eyelids, 

0  pallid  cheeks  .  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

And  the  little  tuft  of  hair  —  you  see  it  ? 

THE   POET 

Take  him!     My  heart  is  in  despair! 

THE   WOMAN 

No  one  will  have  my  burden ;  for  my  burden  is  heavier 
Than   any   save   a   mother  can   bear  .  .  .  O   Earth,   hard 
Earth, 

1  shall  not  go  mad:  I  hold  back:  I  shut  the  doors  on  the 

Furies: 
I  stand  straight  and  stiff!     I  hold  against  my  heart  with 

words ! 

[Silence.] 

So,  poet,  you  are  hushed !     Life  is  too  much  for  you ! 
Go  —  live  in  your  dreams  and  let  the  reality  of  experience 
Flow  over  you,  untasted  .  .  .  You  are  wise:  it  is  better! 

[Silence.'] 

What?    All  silent?    My  star-gazers  brought  to  a  pause? 
You,  too? 

THE  SCIENTIST 
[Grimly.'] 
Who  would  listen  to  me  must  be  hard  and  strong. 


THE  WOMAN" 

Am  I  soft  and  weak? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

You   have   the   strength    of    revolt,    but    not    the   greater 
strength  of  acceptance. 

THE   WOMAN 

What  shall  I  accept? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

The  inexorable  facts  of  life. 

THE   WOMAN 

And  what  are  those  facts? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

That  man  is  no  more  than  the  grasses,  and  that  man  is  no 
more, 

Though  his  dreams  are  grandiose,  than  the  pine  on  this  hill, 
or  the  bright  star 

Burning   blue   out  yonder  —  strangely   the   chemicals   mix, 
and  the  forces  interplay, 

And  out  of  it  consciousness  rises,  an  energy  harnessed  by  en 
ergies, 

And  a  little  while  it  burns,  then  flickers,  then  vanishes  out, 

And  is  no  more  than  the  October  wind  and  the  smell  of 
dried  hay. 

THE  WOMAN 

These  are  the  facts? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

These  are  the  facts. 

c  HI] 


THE   WOMAN 

And  my  child  was  nothing  but  energy,  gathered  and  scat 
tered  ? 

THE  SCIENTIST 

These  are  the  facts  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

He  was  only  a  cunning  engine  and  a  curious  machine  ? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Thus  are  we  all  ... 

THE  WOMAN 

Not  all  ...  thus  are  you  .  .  . 

But  this  child  was  mine,  he  was  my  baby  and  he  was  my  son. 
And  I  was  his  life-giver,  and  his  lover,  and  his  mother  .  .  . 
And  I  knew  the  glory  of  this  child,  for  I  lived  with  it, 
And  I  know  the  marvel  and  mystery  of  motherhood,  for  I 

lived  it  ... 

I  lived  it,  who  now  live  the  death  of  a  treasured  being, 
And  who  know  now  that  the  light  of  the  world  is  out,  and 

only  death 

May  heal  me  of  anguish,  and  only  death's  long  sleep 
Shall  bury  my  bereavement  in  peace  .  .  .  O  mouthers  of 

words, 

Dreamers  who  do  not  live,  I  go  back  to  the  valley, 
And  there  I  shall  put  this  babe  in  the  Earth  where  the  seeds 

of  Autumn  are  sinking, 

And  there  I  shall  slay  myself,  knowing  that  no  one  knows, 
And  no  one  helps,  and  life  is  a  madness  and  a  horror, 
And  to  be  dead  is  better  than  to  suffer. 

[They  say  nothing.     The  Priest  silently  prays.     The 

[  142] 


Woman  turns,  and  starts  slowly  out.     But  as  she 
goes  a  Man  enters,  searchingly.] 

THE  MAN 

Beloved!     O  where  have  you  fled  from  me? 

THE  WOMAN 

Go  back  —  I  hate  you  for  bringing  this  being  into  life, 
Whose  loss  has  ruined  life,  life  itself:  and  I  had  better 

never  loved  you, 
For  love  brings  children  to  the  mother. 

THE   MAN 

It  is  my  child,  too  ...  I  too  have  lost  him. 

THE   WOMAN 

You  have  lost  a  plaything  and  the  promise  of  a  man, 

And  you  have  lost  a  trouble  and  a  burden : 

But  I  have  lost  my  love,  and  I  have  lost  the  life  of  my  life. 

THE   MAN 

You  are  cruel  in  your  sorrow  beyond  all  women  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

Then  leave  me,  and  seek  comfort  elsewhere. 
There  are  many  women. 

THE   MAN 

You  are  desperate,  and  there  is  a  hardness  in  you  that  makes 

me  afraid. 
Where  are  you  going? 

E  143] 


THE  WOMAN 

I  follow  this  child. 

THE  MAN 

Then  I  lose  my  child  .  .  .  even  as  you  lost  yours. 


THE  WOMAN 

Your  child?     Ha!     I  am  gone! 

[Tries  to  pass  him;  he  seizes  her.] 

THE   MAN 

You  shall  not  go,  for  you  are  mine.     O  beloved,  hear  me! 

THE   WOMAN 

Take  away  your  hands,  for  every  moment  that  you  make 

me  stay 
Deepens  my  hate  of  you. 

THE   MAN 

You  would  break  my  life  in  bits? 

THE   WOMAN 

Your  life  is  not  so  easily  broken  .  .  . 

You  are  a  man  .  .  .  Come !  I  shall  do  some  terrible  thing  — 

THE   MAN 

Then  I  too  shall  follow  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

Follow?    Where? 

THE   MAN 

Wherever  you  go. 

I  144  J 


THE  WOMAN 

Down  into  death? 

THE  MAN 
Even  into  death. 

\_A  pause;  she  draws  back  a  little.] 

THE  WOMAN 

Are  you  crying?    Are  there  tears  on  your  cheeks? 
Why  do  you  heave  so? 

THE   MAN 

Your  love  has  died  .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

Are  you  so  weak  ? 

THE  MAN 

But  I  need  you  so  ... 

THE  WOMAN 

[/«  a  changed  voice.] 
You  need  me! 

THE   MAN 

Look!     If  I  do  not  need  you,  who  am  alone,  uncomforted, 
With   no   place   on   Earth,   no   life,   no   light,   if   you   are 
gone  .  .  . 

I  THE  WOMAN 

You  need  me?     j          ^  , 

|  THE  MAN 

I  need  you  .  .  . 
[Silence.] 

[  145] 


THE  WOMAN 

This  man  is  my  child  .  .  . 
[Silence.] 

THE   MAN 
[Drawing  her  tenderly  close.] 

Our  dead  child  between  us, 

O  my  beloved,  is  there  not  a  future? 

May  no  more  children  issue  from  us,  no  more  children 

Lovely,  golden,  waking  with  laughter,  and  clothed  as  w* 

dawn 

With  the  memory  of  the  dead  ?     Come,  my  beloved, 
Down  to  the  Valley,  down  to  the  living,  down  to  the  toilers. 
Come,  my  beloved!     I  am  your  child  and  your  father, 
Your  husband  and  your  lover!     Come,  let  us  go! 

THE  WOMAN 
{Weeping.} 

0  my  heart ! 

Something  has  broken  in  me,  and  the  flood  flows  through 
my  being! 

1  come!     I  come! 

[They  go  out  together,  the  Man  with  his  arm  around 
the  Woman.'] 

THE   PRIEST 

Forgive  these  children,  Lord  God! 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Ignorance  is  indeed  bliss! 


THE  POET 

The  secret  of  life? 

He  gives  it  to  her,  she  gives  it  to  him  .  .  . 

But  who  shall  tell  of  it?    Who  shall  know  it 2 


[  147  1 


.     .  General  Library 
University  of  C* I ;/L   • 


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*  *  i 


402205 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


